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lii 


Cmadlwi  InMiluM  for  Hhtorieal  MieraraproduethMn  /  Imlttut  Canadian  da  mierorapreduetlona  Matofiquaa 


1995 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  technique  et  bibliogiaphlques 


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0 


n 


Colourad  coven/ 
CouvBiture  de  coulaur 


I     I      Coveis  damaged/ 

I     I  Covere  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

— '  Couveftureiestaurieet/oupalicuMe 

I     I  Cover  title  missing /LetttrndecouverturemaiKiue 

I     I  CokXBBd  maps/ Cartes  giographiques  en  couleur 

[7]  Coloured  Ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 

"'-'  Encrede  coulaur  (i.e.  autre  que  Ueueou  noire) 

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I     I  Bound  with  other  material/ 

' — '  Ralieavec(fauties  documents 


Only  adWon  available/ 
SeuleMWondlspanible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortkxi 
ak)ng  Interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serrie  peut 
causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorskm  Is  kxig  de 
la  marge  IntMeiire. 

Blank  ISBfls  added  during  restorations  may  annar 
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sppemesent  dans  lelSKle,  male,  toisquecelaeiait 
posaUs,  cae  pagae  n'ont  pes  M  Ikneae. 


L'Institut  a  mterofilmS  le  mellieur  examplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
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plaire  qui  sont  peut-«tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modifk»tions  dans  la  mm- 
ode  normale  de  filmage  sorrt  indiqute  ci-dessous. 

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17]      Showthrou^/Transpsrence 

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D 


Addtonal  comments/ 
Commentaires  suppMrnsntaires: 


This  iiiffl  ■  IHoMd  •!  Mm  reduction  ratio  dMcfcad  batow/ 
C*  docamtnt  nt  film*  M  taux  d»  rMueiion  indieu*  ei'dMioui. 
10X  14X  1IX 


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Th*  copy  flimad  hara  hu  bMn  rapredu««d  thanlM 
to  th*  gwiwMity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'M«mpl«ir«  film*  fut  raproduit  grtea  i  la 
g4n4roaM  da: 

Bibliothiqua  national*  du  Canada 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  bast  qualitv 
pessibia  eenaidaring  tha  eendltien  and  lagibillty 
of  tha  arlginal  eepy  and  In  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  eoniract  apaclfleatiena. 


Las  imagas  suivantaa  ont  ttt  rsprodultas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin.  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nanat*  da  raHamplaira  film*,  at  »n 
eonfermM  avac  las  conditions  du  centrat  da 


Original  eoplaa  In  printad  papar  eowats  ara  fUmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  eavar  and  afNHng  on 
tha  iaat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  Impraa- 
slon.  or  tha  back  eovar  whan  approprlata.  All 
othar  original  eoplaa  ara  fllmad  bagliming  on  tho 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  Illuatratad  impraa- 
slon,  and  anding  en  tha  Iaat  paga  wMi  a  printad 
or  Illuatratad  imprasalon. 


Tha  last  racerdad  frama  on  aaeh  mlcroficho 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  —^(moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"!, or  tha  symbol  V  Imaaiiing  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 


Laa  aaamplalras  orlglnaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimia  sont  fllmto  an  commandant 
par  la  pramlar  plat  at  an  tarmlnant  soit  par  la 
damltra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraasion  ou  d'illustration.  salt  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  las  autras  aaamplalras 
orlginaua  sont  fllmta  an  commandant  par  la 
pramMra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaalon  ou  d'illuatratfon  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  damlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  symbolos  sulvants  tpparaltra  sur  ia 
damUra  imaga  da  chaqua  microfieha.  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbols  ^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  ia 
symbols  ▼  signlfia  "FIN". 


Mapa.  platas,  charta,  ate,  may  ba  fllmad  at 
diffarant  raductlon  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  included  in  ona  aapoaura  aia  fllmad 
baginning  In  tha  uppar  laft  hand  eomar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  frames  as 
required.  The  follewing  diagrama  IHuatrata  the 
meth'^d: 


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fllmto  *  daa  taux  da  rMuctlon  diffarants. 
Lorsqua  la  document  eat  trap  grand  pour  ttra 
reprodult  en  un  soul  clichi.  ii  est  film*  t  partir 
da  I'angia  supiriaur  gauche,  da  gauche  a  droita. 
at  do  haut  an  baa.  an  prenant  la  nombra 
d'Imegea  ndcassalre.  Laa  diagremmea  suivsnts 
illustrent  la  mtthoda. 


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WINONA 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 


WILLIAM  J.  FISCHER 

AMkw  of  "  Smo  br  lb*  Vayaidt  " 


WITH  AN  IWTl^HlCflON  BY 

J.  E.  COPLi  ..  S.  J. 


^m 


ST.LOUIS.MO..,JFMr«»jj      /i,^_, 
PUBLISHED  BY  B.  HBk  *» 


fS'f 


!3034 


HV"^ 


To  my  dnr  mother  and/athtr,  whet* 
strong,  abuling  love  I  count  the  iweet- 
tit  thing  on  earth,  I  graUfuUy  dedi- 
eate  this  Utile  booh  oj  tales  in  the  hope 
that  it  may  bring  bach  precious  mem- 
ories of  that  Childhood— Kingdom, 
whose  doors  have  closed  upon  me  forever. 
THE  AUTHOR. 


Waterloo,  Canada, 
Easter  1906. 


CONTENTS 

t'live 

Winona 7 

The  Professor's  Secret 87 

One  Easter  at  Highmore 70 

Shadow  and  Sunshine 105 

For  Love's  Own  Sake 113 

A  Voice  in  the  Night-Wiuds    ....  147 

Light  Beyond  the  Stars 161 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways 191 


SAID    BEFOREHAND. 

The  author  of  these  eight  delightiul  tales  is 
not  unknown  to  readers  of  Catholic  magazines 
and  newspapers  in  Canada  and  the  United  States. 
William  J.  Fischer,  physician,  poet,  discrimi- 
nating biographical  sketcher,  and  clever  prose 
story  writer,  here  presents  his  first  book  of  short 
stories  to  the  publ  ic.  The  little  work  is  destined 
to  be  as  popular  with  old  and  young  as  his  book 
of  poems:  "Songs  by  the  Wayside. " 

While  a  profound  lover  of  nature,  and  living 
close  to  it,  as  shown  in  these  pages,  Dr.  Fischer 
takes  life  seriously — as  all  physicians,  whether 
of  soul  or  body,  must  necessarily  do— and  yet 
one  cannot  fail  to  discover  between  the  lines  of 
these  pretty  stories  a  glowingly  warm  heart 
which  loves  humanity.  I  have  read  these  stor- 
ies more  than  once,  and  there  is  much  that  is 
worth  remembering  in  them. 

In  reading  "Winona,  and  Other  Stories " 
the  critical  reader  will,  I  think,  be  satisfied  with 
the  literary  style,  which  has  an  individuality 
about  it  not  unpleasing. 

As  might  be  expected  from  the  pen  of  a 
physician-author,  several  of  the  stories  deal 
(5) 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


with  pain  and  sickness,  but,  after  all,  there  is  no 
finer  field  than  the  sick  bed,  and  its  surroundings 
for  the  display  of  those  qualities  which  most  en- 
noble oui  mature. 

Book:  ^f  short  stories  were  never  as  popular 
as  at  the  picsent  time,  and  unless  one  is  greatly 
mistaken,  this  little  volume,  written  during 
moments  of  spare  leisure  in  a  very  busy  life,  will 
find  many  friends,  and  its  author  will  increase 
the  number  of  those  he  already  possesses. 

J.  E.  COPDS,  S.  J. 

Easter  1906, 

Creighton  University, 

Omaha,  Nebraska. 


WINONA. 


Chapter  I. 

Sheltered  by  a  number  of  large  pine  trees,  in 
the  very  heart  of  Notre  Dame  de  Larette— the 
thickly  populated  home  of  the  Hurons— stood 
the  lodge  of  the  humble  Jesuit  missionary.  On 
all  sides,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  were  rows  and 
rows  of  wigwams,  the  homes  of  these  thrifty 
children  of  the  wilderness  and,  through  the  light 
and  dark  green  tints  of  the  maple,  spruce  and 
pine,  one  caught  glimpses  of  crimson  on  the 
blue  sky,  that  told  too  soon  that  another  day  was 
nearing  its  end. 

Good  Pere  Menard,  the  gentle  Blackrobe,  who 
had  labored  for  twenty  years  among  the  Huron 
tribe,  had  reasons  to  congratulate  himself,  for 
had  he  not  founded  this  very  village  and  had  he 
not  also  carried  the  faith  to  these  deserving  creat- 
ures? It  was  a  desperate  struggle  at  first.  Tso- 
hahissen,  the  brawny,  old,  copper-faced  chief, 
would  not  listen  to  the  gentle  tales  of  a  Redeem- 
er who  had  suffered  the  agonies  of  Calvary's  re- 
demption, but  Father  Menard  was  determined 
and,  in  his  mind,  treasured  visions  of  a  distant, 
(7) 


8 


WINONA. 


glorious  day  that  was  to  bring  him  the  laurel 
wreath  of  victory. 

That  day  did  come,  and,  when  Tsohahissen 
bowed  his  head  and  was  baptized,  it  was  not  long 
before  the  Whole  tribe  came  with  him.  The  great 
mountain  had  crumbled  to  atoms,  the  big  chief 
was  a  follower  of  Christ  and  now  the  way  was 
clear  and,  far  beyond,  basking  in  the  sunshine 
of  God's  smile,  lay  the  wide,  open  fields  that  the 
Blackrobe  was  to  explore.  The  soil  was  good, 
the  reaper  was  experienced  and  in  time  there  was 
to  be  a  golden  harvest  of  souls. 

Every  day,  in  the  twilight  hours— those  dWic- 
ious  moments  so  silent  and  sacred — one  could  see, 
there  in  the  open  air,  a  picture  that  the  skilled,' 
artistic  fingers  of  mortal  man  could  never  do  just- 
ice to.  ThSre  sitting  on  the  grass,  silently  list- 
ening, were  the  upturned  faces  of  hundreds  of 
red  children,  their  hearts  swaying  under  the 
clear,  ringing  words  of  the  cassocked  priest,  as 
ir  soft,  musical  voice,  with  crucifix  in  hand,  he 
pictured  the  drama  of  the  Crucifixion.  And  as 
he  stood  there,  in  his  pulpit,  upon  the  bared 
stump  of  i.n  old  oak  free  that  had  fallen  a  prey 
to  Canadian  winds  and  storms,  tears  would  steal 
out  of  his  eyes,  while  a  few  stray  sunbeams  from 
the  west  brightened  his  beautiful  face— a  face 
that  had  the  freshness  of  spring  in  it  though  it 


WINONA.  9 

was  crowned  by  the  white  of  a  premature  winter. 
"I  am  so  glad,"  he  would  often  say,   "that 
God  pointed  my  way  out  so  clearly.     Even  when 
I  was  but  a  child,  mastering  the  Latin  elements, 
I  dreamed  dreams  which  have  since  come  true. 
Later,  I  saw  the  hand  of  God  directing  my  foot- 
steps   to  this  western    hemisphere— this   land 
where  one  sees  nature,  in  all  her  glory,  unshom 
of  her  many  beauties,  unmolested,  gldTious,  real, 
a  veritable  garden  of  Eden,  wherein  millions  of 
birds  pour  forth  daily  their  souls  in  music,  doing 
glory  to  their  Creator. ' '    Often  his  thoughts  un- 
locked the  heart  of  nature  and  he  stole  into  that 
holy  of  holies  to  hold  sweet  converse  with  her. 
He  loved  the  glorious  forest,  the  sun  and  moon 
and  stars,  the  rivers  and  lakes  that  shone  in  the 
starlight,  the  flowers  that  turned  their  faces  to 
the  sun  and  the  birds  that  madrigaled  unceas- 
ingly.    His  was  a  Wordsworthian  love  almost. 
To  him  the  earth  itself  was  a  grand  poem.     He 
studied  it  carefully  and  it  brought  him  nearer  to 
that  other  land  above,  where  golden  fields  lay 
ba-'ing  in  eternal  sunshines.     Often  he  would 


"When  I  shall  go  to  sleep  and  wake  again 
At  dawning  in  another  world  than  this — 
What  will  atone  to  me  for  all  I  miss? 
The  light,  melodious  footsteps  of  the  rain, 
The  press  of  leaves  against  the  window  pane. 


10 


WINONA. 


The  sunset  wistfulness  and  morning  bliss, 
The  moon's  enchantment  and  the  twilight  kiss 
Of  winds,  that  wander  with  me  through  the  lane. 
Will  not  my  soul  remember  evennore 
The  eartHy  winter's  hunger  for  the  spring, 
The  wet,  sweet  cheek  of  April,  and  the  rush 
Of  roses  through  the  summer's  open  door. 
The  feelings  that  the  scented  woodlands  bring 
At  evening,  with  the  singing  of  the  thrush.  " 

Father  M«!nard  was  a  descendant  of  a  noble 
family  closely  connected  with  French  royalty. 
Parts,  by  the  Seine,  had  often  sung  the  praises 
of  his  ancestors.    The  death  of  his  parents^  left 
himself  and  an  only  brother,  Gabrielle,  orphans 
at  a  period  in  life  when  children  realize  too  fully 
what  it  means  to  be  without  father  or  mother. 
But  the  two  found  a  good  friend  and  mother  in 
the  Countess  Boulanger.     "Be  good  to  these  two 
boys,  for  my  sake,  Fanchon,  and  God  will  re- 
ward you!"  were  the  dying  mother's  last  words 
as  she  pressed  the  noble.  French  lady's  hand. 
The  two  women  had  been  friends  through  life 
and  Fanchon  Boulanger,  Countess  and  possessor 
of  millions  in  this  worid's  goods,  took  the  or- 
phans into  her  heart  and  from  that  day  on  was  a 
mother  to  them  in  every  sense. 

The  day  Father  Menard  left  Paris,  Gabrielle 
was  exactly  eighteen  years  old  and  was  pursuing 
the  study  of  the  sciences  and  the  languages  at 


WINONA. 


11 


the  University.  The  former,  having  ^duated 
in  medicine  a  number  of  yeara  before,  and  find- 
ing the  practice  of  his  profession  distasteful,  enter- 
ed the  Jesuit  novitiate  and  was  ordained  when  he 
was  about  thirty,  leaving  the  next  day  with  a 
band  of  missionaries  to  do  God's  work  in  the 
western  hemisphere.  And  now  twenty  yea»  had 
passed  since  that  day,  and  how  he  longed  to  clasp 
his  brother  to  his  heart! 

' '  Not  yet!  not  yet! "  he  murmured,  one  evening 
as  he  rose  from  a  bench  and  closed  the  rude 
wooden  door  of  his  lodge  and  made  for  the  open 
space,  where  the  Indians  were  wont  to  gather  at 
sundown.  "Not  yet— not  yet!  When  my  work 
is  done  and  the  shadows  are  creeping  about  me 
tis  then  I  will  return  to  thee,  my  beloved  Franc^ 
—to  rest  and  to  die  in  peace  in  thy  outstretched 
arms." 

Th«a:r  was  sultry  and  heavy  with  the  perfume 
honeysuckle,  as  the  good  priest  walked  along 
the  well-beaten  pathway.  Theground  was  parch- 
ed and  dry.  It  had  not  rained  for  weeks  and 
the  fields  of  corn  were  burning  up  in  the  heat 
Not  a  breeze  stirred  the  leaves  overhead.  The 
grass  was  turning  red,  the  trees  and  flowers  were 
wilting— the  very  tongue  of  Nature  was  parched 
an(i  hotand  longed  for  the  cooling  show,  rs,  that 
G  a  alone  could  give.  As  the  earnest  Blackrobe 
;rew  nearer  he  at  once  noticed  that  the  Indians 


u 


WINONA. 


gathered  in  groups,  where  discussing  some  vital 
issue.  Their  voices  smote  the  air  with  their  hiss 
ing sounds.  Thewhole  village  wasin  an  uproar, 
i^ud.  shnll  cries  rang  out  everywhere;  men 
agitated,  threw  their  arms  into  the  air;  women 
distracted  with  excitement,  sang  minor  strains, 
clear-cut  and  vigorous,  and  the  monotony  of 
many  drums,  clappers  and  rattles  filled  in  the 
strange  medley,  that  was  intensely  weird  and 
gruesome. 

Father  Menard  halted  a  few  minutes,  his  gaze 
intently  fixed  on  the  swaying  multitude  in  .front 
of  him.     Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon  Tsohahiss- 
en     The  old  chief  was  carrying  a  large  pole, 
nchly  painted,  on  his  swarthy  shoulders  and  his 
band  were  following  in  the  rear  with  dance  and 
song.     The  missionary  knew  what  was  coming 
and  in  his  heart  felt  something  that  was  akin 
to  pain.       He  sighed  deeply    and    whispered 
thoughtfully:     "My  poor  children!     God  pity 
themi    They  are  preparing  for  their  rain-dance 
and  there  will  be  great  excitement  in  the  village 
shortly.     Poor  TsohahissenI  he  is  not  himself 
at  all  this  evening.  ••    Then,  with  a  quick  turn, 
he  was  off.  and  in  his  heart  he  wondered  if  he 
could  prevent  them  from  carrying  oat  this  fool- 
ish dance.     Since  his  coming  among  them  they 
had  abandoned  many  former  customs,  and  the 
last  timeTsohahissen  stood  ready  for  the  dance 


WJNONA. 


18 


about  two  years  ago,  Father  Menard's  words 
worked  almost  magically;  the  Indians  at  once 
had  left  their  respective  places  and  rallied  around 
him  and  the  dance  did  not  go  on. 

Tsohahissen  saw  the  Blackrobe  coming  down 
the  pathway  and  ran  out  to  meet  him.  When 
they  met,  the  old  chief  was  breathless  and  cow- 
ered at  the  priest's  feet  and  kissed  the  hem  of 
h.s  cassock.  Then  he  rose  and.  laying  his  strong 
hand  on  the  priest's  arm,  motioned  to  the  scene 
m  front  of  him  and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  hoarse 
from  yelling:  "Ahl  my  father!  See,  thy  children 
wait  thy  coming  with  joy.  The  rivers,  the  fields, 
the  trees-everything  around  cries  for  rain. 
The  flowers  in  the  forest  are  sad  and  hang  their 
heads  and,  when  the  grass  turns  red  in  the  sun 
everything  dies.  So  big  chief  will  start  rain- 
dance  to-night,  before  the  moon  comes  out,  and 
braves  will  follow  his  example  and  the  Blackrobe 
will  give  his  blessing. " 

The  Indian  chief  seemed  nervous,  as  he  ran  his 
brown,  wrinkled  fingers  through  a  chain  of  buf- 
falo teeth  that  hung  around  his  neck,  and,  when 
his  old  dark  face  was  full  npon^e  sweet-faced 
pnest,  his  eyes  fairly  shone  like  two  balls  of  fire. 
Father  Menard  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  put  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  stooped  should- 
ers and  said  lovingly:  "Much  better  would  it 
be,  my  son,  if  you  and  your  children  were  to  get 


14 


WINONA. 


down  on  your  kneea  with  me  this  evening  and  aek 
God,  your  Father  in  heaven,  to  give  you  rain." 
Tsohahissen  raiaed  himself  proudly;  the  eagle- 
featherson  his  head  shook  slighUy  and  there  was 
a  dissatisfied  look  in  his  wild  eyes.  The  priest 
noticed  it  and  he  knew  the  virulence  of  Tsohahis- 
sen's  anger,  for.  good  as  the  latter  was,  it  almost 
tore  his  heart  ^n  two  to  see  the  old  traditions  and 
customs  of  his  Huron  forefathem  thrown  aside  so 
carelessly.  Father  Menard  knew  all  this  und  as 
he  looked  up  at  the  man  before  him— a  towering 
oak  among  the  beeches  and  saplings— he  noticed 
that  the  old  chief's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Hear  you  not  the  big  river  yonder  calling  for 
water,  O  my  father?' '  the  old  man  exclaimed  with 
emotion.  "He  is  calling  me.  The  leaves  of  the 
trees  are  also  speaking  and  the  lonely  cry  of  the 
woodchuck  haunts  me  in  my  sleep.  I  fear  they 
are  dying  and  I  must  hurry.  The  birds  of  the 
air  are  leaving  us  and  the  moose  and  deer  are 
lean  and  holloV-eyed.  And  O,  my  Indians,  my 
family— they  are  starving  now— the  river  is  dry- 
ing up  and  I  see  nothing  but  dead  men's  bones. 
Come,  my  father!  Come  with  mel  I  will  take 
the  Blackrobe  to  his  poor  children." 

And,  arm  in  arm,  the  priest  and  chief  walked 
off  together  and,  as  Tsohahissen  led  him  forward, 
cheer  followed  cheer,  and  cries,   shrieks,  war- 


WINONA. 


16 


nd 

ae 

le 

the 


whoops  came  in  rwiit  succession,  until  the  whole 
forest  trembled  am'  shook  as  with  fear. 

The  great  ceremos  y  at  last  began.     Th 
pole,   about  eight  feet  high,   with   iiav« 
eagle-feathers  on  top.   was  in   its  plac. 
Tsohahissen  stood  adminng   the   red  ri- 
had  painted  on  it.     He.  himself,  had  also 
the  paint  from  a  red  stone,  which  he  found 
shallow  river.     The  women  never  took  jwrtTn 
the  dance— ihe  chief  always  said  that  the,r  faces 
would  scare  the  rain  away-but  they  were  always 
present  and  brought  cakes  and  hominy  for  the 
men  to  eat.    The  men  had  now  formed  large  cir 
cles  around  the  pole  and  Tsohahissen     ;  the  fi^ 
thpt  had  been  already  prepared  and.  wken  it  w.^ 
b.azing  away  briskly,  threw  on  tobacco  lea^  e 
dntil    heavy   clouds  of  smoke  filled  the    i.ir 
Then  he  raised  his  proud  head  and,  as  the  smok* 
rose  skyward,  extended  his  bared  irms  plead 
ingly  tothe  heavens  and  cried  in  a  high,  strange 
hysterical  voice:   "Rawen  Niyoh!     I  want  you 
to  take  care  of  the  Indians,   your  own  peoplel 
My  family  is  here  in  the  wide,  open  forest.     I 
want  rain!  Things,  won't  grow— the  earth  is  too 
dry.      Everything  is  homing  up  in  the  heat. 
Nothing  grows  and  my  children  are  starving 
Hear  you  not  their  cries  of  despair,    you  big 
mighty.  Great  Spirit?    We  must  have  com,  m 


16 


WINONA. 


here  ia  itoine  tobacco  for  you  that  you  may  know 
we  are  here  and  want  rain— rain — rain  I" 

Nearby  knelt  Father  Menard ,  crucifix  in  hand, 
deeply  absorbed  in  prayer. 

In  a  moment,  the  red  chief  made  for  the  pain- 
ted pole  and,  bowing  down  low  before  it,  the 
dance  began.  The  men  swayed  around  wildly 
and  halted  and  faced  the  east,  then  the  north, 
and  then  the  west,  as  they  sang  six  songs  (or 
rain.  The  songs  were  all  in  a  minor  key  and 
fairly  glowed  with  an  intensity  of  feeling  that 
-ould  not  but  inspire  the  heart  of  every  brave. 
The  tempo  was  quick  and  delightlul  and  the 
parting  words  of  the  song  were  lost  in  louu  tones 
of  frenzy  and  delirium. 

The  priect  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  pray- 
ers to  notice  the  dramatic  attirades  of  the  parti- 
cipants in  the  dance.  Suddenly,  he  felt ..  light 
touch  on  his  shoulder.  Turning,  very  much 
frightened,  he  saw  the  form  of  an  Indian  lying 
in  the  grass  behind  him,  like  a  panther  ready  to 
spring  up  at  the  slightest  provocation.  He  rose 
and  faced  the  strange  intruder  in  the  high  grass, 
as  the  latter  raised  himself  on  his  hands  and 
knees  and  whispered:  "They  must  not  see  me 
over  there.  I  have  Iroquois  blood— they  have 
Huron  b'ood.  They  do  not  mix  well.  We  hate 
—we  hate  each  other.  I  am  the  servant  of 
Geronimo — big,   fine,   Iroquois  chief,  who  has 


WINONA. 


17 


camped  with  his  braves    thirf„  ».!i     , 
He  call,  me  F.yin/Sg/e  'Kc""^»/">«>  "';«• 
and  strong.    Two  d«v.  il  '"  '''''^'' 

n.arch  hefe  and  JurnT,?;  Hurr",?""^  '"^ 
Winona,  chief,  onlv  t^»A    i     "  ^"a«e  but 

princessltook  ve.^  'ick    "ih^r""'  ''T **'" 
t!(ul_t,-.  •*"'  "ne  I,  M>  beau- 

With  herein  ^:^:rt%X":.r.r.s 

Geron.mo-good  manl     He  send  le  l     ^ 
Blackrobe  and  ask  me  to  bringhL  bLk  to  i" 
>ng  girl.     Strong  chief  heafnl.     .  °  *'^" 

French  hunters  Vw  Srot"?  T^  ""I"" 
and  beg,  him  to  come  to  hfrS^w  ^J^V  f 
day  grows  too  old. "  '       *"*  *•"* 

rr^rem'^id  rdrastd^r'r'.'''r  ^^^ 

.•'Will  you  go  to  Geronto?    ffisbi 't  A""'"" 
is  breaking. "  '*•  '*''  heart 

Fath e'";tt?:t5ter^»  ''^"'^'^-  "P°" 
was  he  to  do?    wLl^^l  ??*"'*'""•     ^"^^ 

the  enemy  and  X%"cSrji:''Sr5u1 

participants  in  thed^S  excitement  among  the 

TsohaSssen   v^th'^larglToSroHV"' 
bounded  over  the  gra.i„^ehe°2^;rX- 


18 


WINONA. 


Father  Menard  stood.  One  of  the  women,  who 
was  on  her  way  to  the  shallow  river  for  water, 
happened  to  spy  the  stranger  in  the  grass;.  Not- 
ing that  he  was  an  Iroquois,  she  hastened 
back  unnoticed  to  tell  Tsohahissen  that  an  enemy 
was  in  the  camp. 

In  a  moment,  they  were  upon  both,  howling 
and  shrieking  like  a  pack  of  wolves.  Flying 
Eagle  sprang  to  his  feet  and  faced  the  whole 
frenzied  populace,  that  would  have  cut  him 
down  with  a  sweep  of  tomahawks  had  not  the 
gentle  Jesuit  interfered.  With  a  quick,  turn 
of  the  arm,  the  priest  raised  his  crucifix  into  the 
air.  His  face  was  pale  and  his  lips  were  mov- 
ing and,  by  some  strange  power,  hundreds  of 
hands  loosened  their  grip  on  their  deadly  toma- 
hawks, while  disordered,  angry  voices  suddenly 
ceased — and  strong  men,  men  who  but  a  moment 
before  possessed  Herculean  strength,  now  sank 
back  powerless  in  the  light  that  shone  from  the 
little  wooden  crucifix. 

Then  Father  Menard  briefly  told  his  hearers 
the  object  of  Flying  Eagle's  coming.  "At  day- 
break," he  added,  "I  will  leave  you,  my  dear 
children.  The  voice  of  God  calls  me  into  the 
camp  of  the  Iroquois.  But  I  will  return  again. 
In  the  meanwhile,  be  good  and  place  your  hearts 
in  your  Father's  care,  Who  is  in  heaveni" 

Flying  Eagle  was  the  guest  of  the  learned 


WINONA. 


19 


jMtMt  that  evening  and  for  some  time  they  sat 
Wking  in  the  old  lodge  down  by  the  pine  trees 
and.  when  later  they  both  fell  asleep.  Father 
Menard  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream-and  he  was 
to  be  the  peace-makerl 


Chapter  II. 


At  midnight,  a  heavy  rain  was  falling.  Feals 
of  loud  thunder  shook  the  earth  and  now  and 
then  there  wa.  a  crash  of  falling  timber.  The 
heavens  flashed  continually  and,  in  the  west, 
inky  clouds  ^ere  writhing,  demon-like,  in  a  liv- 
ing hell  of  fire.  Father  Menard  turned  slightly 
on  his  couch  and,  slowly  raised  himself  on  his 
hands.  Then  he  moved  mechanically  to  his  feet 
and  lit  the  tallow  candle  on  the  table  and  strode 
sleepily  across  the  floor.  Just  then  there  was  a 
loud  peal  of  thunder  and  crash  followed  crash; 
the  poor  priest's  heart  beat  more  rapidly  as  he 
said,  thoughtfully:  "A.hl  'tis  a  stormy  night 
— ^but  I  am  glad  that  God  heard  my  prayer  for 
rain.  I  hope  that  no  harm  may  come  to  my 
Indian  children! ' '  Then  he  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  across  the  dreamy  landscape.  It 
was  a  titanic  battle  of  the  elements.  The  rain 
was  coming  down  in  torrents  and,  when  the  skies 
again  flashed  lightning,  he  saw  long  rows  of 
wigwams  in  the  distance  and  more — he  thought 
he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man,  creeping  along  in 
the  rain. 

In  a  second,  the  priest  was  down  on  his  knees 
(20) 


WINONA. 


21 


and,  from  his  heart,  gave  thanksgiving  to  his 
God.  When  he  rose,  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 
Who  could  be  out  at  this  hour?  Perhaps  one  of 
his  children  of  the  wilderness  was  dying  and 
longed  for  his  strong  word  to  give  courage  to  the 
passing  soul.  He  lifted  the  latch,  the  door  flew 
open  and  there,  on  the  threshold,  stood  the 
figure  of  a  man,  tall  and  full  of  majesty.  It  was 
Tsohahissen,  poor,  old  man,  dripping  wet. 

The  chief  strode  into  the  room  proudly,  and 
kissed  his  friend's  hand.      "O  my  good,  kind 
fatherl    Tsohahissen  is  happy.    The  sound  of 
the  rain  has  made  the  chief  glad.     He  could  not 
sleep  so  he  left  wigwam  and,  seeing  a  light  in 
Blackrobe's  window,  knew  that  he  was  awake 
and  came  here  to  thaak  him  for  his  prayers. 
His  God  has  been  good  to  us  and  given  us  rain. 
Rain-dance  no  good— chief  and  braves  danced  full 
time  but  no  rain.     Chief  now  wise  and  will  dance 
no  nore.  ••    Tsohahissen's  voice  trembled  and  his 
eyes  had  a  faraway  look  in  them.     Then,  sud- 
denly, he  clutched  his  battle-axe  and  sprane  to 
the  door.  * 

"Oh,  my  son,"  intercc'-l  the  priest,  "you 
must  not  go  now;  wait  till  the  storm  is  over." 

Tsohahissen's  face  wrinkled  into  a  smile,  as 
he  shook  his  head  and  said  carelessly:  "Big 
chief  fears  neither  thunder,  lightning  nor  rain. 
He  loves  it— but  wife  and  child  are  all  alone  in 


«>  WINONA. 

wigwam  and  they  wait  Tsohahissen's  return." 
Then  he  raised  himself  straight  as  an  arrow 
his  fiery  eyes  fairly  sparkled.  thei«  was  a  sudden 
sweep  of  his  right  arm  and  almost  instantly  he 
sprang  out  into  the  darkness  and  rain. 


Chaptkr  III. 

When  the  dawn  purpled  the  eastern  hills, 
Father  Menard  and  Flying  Eagle  left  the  lodge, 
the  latter  carrying  a  canoe  on  his  strong  should- 
ers. When  they  were  gone,  Nanette,  the  trusty 
Flench  m-.id,  who  had  come  to  the  wilderness 
twenty  years  ago  with  her  priest-cousin,  gently 
closed  the  door  and  sighed  deeply.  That  morn- 
ing she  thought  she  had  noticed  a  strange  look 
in  the  Blackrobe's  eyes,  such  as  she  had  never 
seen  before  and,  in  her  heart,  she  wondered  if  he 
would  ever  come  back  to  Notre  Dame  de  Larette 
alive.  He  had  been  a  father  to  her  and,  now 
that  he  would  be  gone  for  some  time,  the  little 
lodge  down  by  the  pine  trees  would  become  very 
lonely. 

When  the  two  reached  the  river  shore,  they 
were  greeted  on  all  sides  by  the  Indians,  who 
stood  waiting  to  give  them  a  royal  farewell. 
Tsohahissen  strode  sadly  to  the  gentle  priest's 
side  and  was  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  for 
some  minutes. 

"Iroquois  hate  Hurons!"  he  muttered,  ner- 
vously. "I  fear  they  will  capture  and  kill  our 
good  father  and  Blackrobe  will  return  to  our 
(23) 


24 


WINONA. 


homes  no  more,    i  am  sad.  for  I  love-  vou,"  and 
h.shps  trembled  overcome  with  em  .^ 

iJlZ^^I.^  P"^'  "'^  •»»  »»and  and.  lay- 
tagUonTsohahissen-sshoulder.  said  conso'ling- 

!.L  /!       ***•  «^**  '^''••^"    I  »»  going  on  an 
clu^d  needs  me^    My  life  is  i„  God's  Lds  and 

iZ        7  """^""^  '°  ^^"-     With  Him  I  can 
face  any  danger.     And  some  day,  who  knows 
Geronmo  an,d  Tsohahissen  may   yet    beZ; 

EnrotTf"^^-"^--^'-'--^- 

T«,hahissen  opened  his  eyes  eagerly  andshook 
h«  feather-crowned  head,  as  if  what  the  prie^ 

had  said  was  nigh  to  impossible. 

In  another  few  minutes  Father  Menard  was  in 

the  paddles  mtheair.  Another  second  and  thev 
smotethewater.  There  was  great  spIasWnga„  J 
prghngandthetwo  were  off.  andSngtie  I„d 
lans  stood  and  watched  until  the  can<^  and  ^ 
^pants  seemed  like  a  small  speck  on  the  d£ 
tant.  blue  waters. 

For  evenings  after,  there  was  one  solitary 
wateher  on  the  river  shore.  It  was  TsohahiS^ 
-poor  man!  His  red  face  bore  a  saddened  look 
as  he  gazed  mto  the  troubled,  angry  waters 
A^in  and  again  he  raised  his  hand  t^is  mS 
and  shouted  wild-sounding  words  into  the  lone  y 


WINONA. 


26 


night  around  him,  but  the  splashing,  moaning 
waves  alone  made  answer. 

It  was  late  when  Father  Menard  and  Flying 
Eagle  reached  their  destination.  The  good  priest 
was  very  tired— most  of  the  journey  having  been 
made  on  foot.  Geronimo  stood  waiting  at  the 
edge  of  the  foiest  in  the  moonlight  to  extend  his 
friendly  greeting  and  escort  the  illustrious 
visitor  to  the  village.  The  great  chief  of  the 
Iroquois  was  a  very  old  man;  his  shoulders  were 
slightly  stooped  but  his  gait  was  still  strong  and 
steady.  On  his  fierce,  swarthy,  rough  face,  how 
ever,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  mas3  of  raven- 
black  hair,  one  could  see  a  few  soft  lines,  that 
were  ready  to  run  into  a  smile  at  the  slightest 
provocation.  His  cheek  bones  were  very  prom- 
inent, his  glance  was  quick  and  penetrating  and 
somewhat  s*em,  but  it  melted  into  kindness,  as 
he  eyed  the  Blackrobe  intently. 

In  the  central  part  of  the  village,  a  bonfire  was 
glowing  and,  thickly  grouped  around,  sat  the 
braves,  holding  their  pipes  and  smoking  in 
silence.  When  the  party  drew  nearer,  Flying 
Eagle  gave  one  shrill  cry  and  went  to  the  anx- 
ious faces,  staring  into  the  flames.  In  a  moment 
he  was  among  them  and  all  the  men  took  up 
the  cry.  It  was  so  loud  and  shrill  that  bird  and 
beast  alike  became  suddenly  frightened. 

When  Geronimo  drew  near,   leading   Father 


26 


WINONA. 


Menard  by  the  arm.  heads  turned  and  hundred, 

?hev  W*^  "T  "  '''"'"^  "«  "P*"'*^'"  «S 
they  looked  upon  him  with  a  feeling  of  awe. 
Gomel  'said  Geronimo  kindly  to  the  priest 
you  must  be  hungry-the  meal  i,  ready,  ?^a7d 

and  partook  free  y  of  venison  and  choice  cuts  o^ 

hard,  beechwood  platters. 

when  Father  Menard  answered,  in  the  Iroquois 

thTr  ''f.''  "^'"''^  ''°  ""  "«  couldTZ 
the  hfe  of  the  sick  child,  the  earnest  red-face 
burst  into  a  smile  of  gratitude. 

h.r^'?"  !'''  ^''^  '"*^"^  Geronimo's  wigwam, 
Ut  a  few  feet  away,  thechattering  voices o^id^ 

-to  them  he  was  greatness  itself.  His  arrows 
never  missed  in  a  chase,  his  battle-axe  and  svZl 
never  failed  to  draw  blood  in  batUe.  He^' 
fnd  w;?  "Tr  "l-wthe  language  of  be^ 

Wh..  t,?'  "^  "^^'^  *"-  ^^  ""^  wealthy. 

When  the  pnest  entered  the  wigwam  his  glance 

lut":        \'"  *''  surroundings.      Sca^tter^ 
about  everywhere  were  rich  furs  of  black  fox 
snowy  ermine,  brown  otter,   beaver  and  deer' 
Spears,    war-axes,  bows,    arrows,    tomahawks' 


WINONA. 


27 


shields  and  much  bead-work  hung  from  every 
comer. 

Upon  several  fine  skins  of  snowy  ermine  lay 
Winona— the  dying  girl— the  glory  of  Geronimo's 
wild  heart.  She  could  not  have  been  more  than 
eighteen,  this  lovely  princess  of  a  mighty  nation. 
She  was  extremely  beautiful — her  face  had  no 
rough  lines  or  prominent  angles.  It  was  so  un- 
Indian-like.  Her  complexion,  too,  was  not  that 
deep  bronze,  but  a  very  soft,  light  yellow.  Her 
lips  had  the  color  of  the  crimson  twilight,  her 
long,  flowing  hair  was  black  as  the  night.  Neck- 
laces of  white  beads  and  strings  of  wampum  lay 
on  her  throbbing  bosom,  and  her  dress  was  of 
fine  deer  skin,  thinned  and  cuied  so  that  it  was 
soft  as  silk.  A  pair  of  fine  buckskin  moccasins, 
embroidered  with  quill-work,  beids  and  shells, 
covered  her  feet.  Beside  her  knelt  the  "medicine- 
mn."  He  was  gaunt  and  wild-eyed  and  it 
seemed  almost  incredible  that  a  heart  could  go 
on  beating  and  sustain  life  in  so  thin  and  wasted 
a  body.  But  he  was  a  power  in  his  community 
— this  strange-looking  individual  with  the  white, 
flowing  hair,  the  long  fingernails  and  mufiSed 
monotones. 
"Wise  as  the  wisest  in  council  grave. 

He  sat  with  the  chiefs  around  hii    - 
He  knew  of  the  roots  that  ever  save; 
He  sought  them  down  by  the  Blackstream's  wave, 
He  knew  the  star  of  each  warrior  brave 

And  knew  where  the  fates  had  found  him." 

Yesterday,  at  sunrise,  he  had  come  to  Gero- 


WINONA. 

Pewed.     The  sick  rhn7  ^*t     '"'y  and  ^isap- 

The  pHest  lald^s  ^  rirp^r  ^"•■"^' 
very  weak  and  fluttering      i  P^'se-it  was 

Her  body  was  «>ld  andVvt?  'T'^P""- 
Perepiration.  '^^'**'  ^"''  »  dammy 

on«''%'drdih;trj;t' r  "^  ^'^"•"'-''  - 

his   satchel    and    S  ifZ     !   ""  '*'*  ''^'^'^ 
Quicklyhepouredo^^af^^  '*   *  '"«"  '^•a'- 
-d  into  a  liSe  glai  syrii"  S'^  "'  ^  ''^'>'  «^- 
water,  and  injectedit  S!'      '^'^  "P^^'^  '^ith 
he  filledseve?earthrr  ^'^'''''*™-    ^hen 
placed  then,  a^n^'d  Jh^"  Sd^^*'?  ^/  water  and 
and  overcome  the  state  of  In     ""*"**  '"''""'"o 
had  fallen  into     (Jj^n^r    fT  *'''' ^'"""^ 
^"%  and  then  2^S     "y^^?  i'-^  P"-* -" 
beautiful  princess,  live?-  ^'"°"«'    '"V 

The  learned  Jesuit  nierelv  raised  hw 

raised  his  eyes  and 


WINONA. 


answered:    "I  will  be  better  able  to  tell  later  on. 
I  will  do  my  best" 

To  Gerooimo,  Winona  was  everything.  Since 
her  mother's  death,  two  years  ago,  she  had  been 
to  him  a  consolation  and  a  companion. 

In  thirty  minutes  the  hypodermic  injection 
was  repeated— the  heart  had  not  yet  responded 
to  the  stimulus.  Small  pellets,  containing  some 
active  medicinal  substance  were  also  given  the 
girl.  In  a  few  moments,  Winona's  eyes  closed 
and  she  drifted  into  a  calm,  refreshing  ^eep. 

Father  Menard  then  strode  to  the  chief's  side. 
"You  must  lie  down,  Geronimo — it  is  late.  You 
look  tired  and  worn  out  and  to-night  you  must 
have  a  few  hours  of  quiet  sleep.  I  will  watch 
the  sick  child  and.  if  anything  happens,  I  will 
call  you." 

Geronimo  at  first  refused  bluntly,  but  soon  the 
priest's  gentle  voice  mastered  the  latter's  feelings 
and  he  sank  down  upon  a  pile  of  buffalo  skins 
and  was  soon  asleep. 

The  missionary  stole  to  the  side  of  the  sick  girl 
—she  was  sleeping  quietly.  He  felt  her  pulse 
and  his  eyes  brightened  instantly.  Again  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and  laying  his  crucifix 
upon  her  breast,  prayed  in  silence.  Without, 
strong  winds  shrieked  and  whistled  through  the 
writhing  branch  ts.  and  now  and  then  the  mourn- 
ful cry  of- 9«ue  wild  animal  ia  the  forest  stole 


so 


WINONA. 


bed-iide.  "^^  watcher  at  her 

woke  S.I0  vrf.  "r'-^^  pSt 

y.wned.  opened  an^dTub^ht^e.  l'  t'^ 
he  «w  the  Blackrobe  bendTng  ov«"L  .  " 
and  miehty  fear  nM.-»«tJ  "•  "  P*"* 

body.  HeMlf^!^*^  '^'^'y  ""««»*  m  hi- 
to  Ws  kni  ^  ^"^  •»  ;«  "^  himself 

deadi    I  felt  it—r  1.        "•       Winona  is  dead— 

Then  his  head  feU  into  his  hmre  bm»«  1.    ^ 
Md  he  sobbed  like  a  child.  ^^  ^"^ 

"GeronimoJ"  exclaimni  «,- 
"Raise  yourselfl  Wi«nT-  ^^  «^'y- 

-lives  I  s^r  ThI  1       1  "°*  *'""'''  ''"^  «^ 
that  sickIS,  If'y^t^nSr  ^ThTf  "'^  '" 

^^_;      ?"«««».  the  heartsof  her  Iroquois  child- 


QuicklyhelodGerem 


mo  tothesick  child,  who 


WINONA. 


81 


greeted  both  with  a  smile  that  lingered  for  aome 
time  on  two  bright,  rosy  lip*. 

Geronimo  bent  over  the  beautiful  form  and 
stroked  the  black  locks  gently,  while  Father 
Menard  brushed  aside  the  heavy  curtains  at  the 
doorway  and  left  the  wigwam.  And  for  some 
minutes  father  and  child  were  alone. 

The  sky  was  a  mass  of  slate-colored  clouds, 
but  far  in  the  East,  through  the  distant  cedars  and 
hemlocks,  a  few  long  lines  of  red  light  told  of  the 
birth  of  another  day.  The  birds  were  stirring  in 
^he  trees  and  flocks  of  wild  geese  in  the  grassy 
iiiaishes  were  ey  eing  the  skies  to  take  their  morn- 
ing cruise.  On  a  distant  mountain  top,  a  lonely 
elk  bugled  forth  glad  welcomes  to  the  infant  day, 
that  lay  cradled  in  the  lap  of  the  rosy  dawn. 

The  priest's  responsive  heart  beat  gladly  with- 
in him  as  his  eyes  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the 
morning  hour,  and  almost  suddenly  the  sun 
smiled  upon  the  face  of  nature.  Soon  there  was 
a  great  stir  in  the  village.  Hundreds  of  wig- 
wams threw  forth  their  occupants  and  women 
were  running  around  every- where,  preparing  the 
morning  meal. 

Father  Menard  quit  his  place  and  silently  en- 
*^ed  the  wigwam.  There  he  saw  a  beautiful 
picture— one  he  did  not  expect  to  see  so  soon — and 
it  was  all  arranged,  in  his  shoVt  absence,  by  the 
artistic  fingers  of  a  powerful  Creator.     On  her 


WINONA. 

father  at  the  bedSde  Ger^l-  ^  T''  °'  ''^^ 
bowed  and  in  his  hands  he  hTd  fa^^^r'  T 
which  the  Priest  had  „ia^^  ^^  cruafix, 

in  the  nighSe  ^"^^  !?  "^"  "^'"""^'^  ''^^-^ 
>ips  mo^d  sZy  an^'d'Z^:;-  '^'""'^  '"'^  ''^^ 

disturbed  the  quiet  sereni^  nf  I       ^^''^  ''^  ''^'^ 
instant,  he  sank  upoTh^,?      ^  '*"^-     ^^  «" 
face  as  he  whis^pe^i'^^-^^r^^^^^^  '''' 
thee!"     For  some  time  allkt,.!?-      m    ^  ^^^"^ 
to  the  good  priest  it  slmed  JhtT    ""'  ^"'^ 
warn  was  peopled  and  Se  '^   ^^.^^  ^'^- 
faced  beings,  who  had  >:t^i      •       .       ^^'  ^^^^t" 
and,  in  his'  L^rt,  he  feU  Lrhr^  ^^  ^"""■^^' 
stir  and  rustle  of  ;ngei?wX  "•■'  ^"^ 

!y  upon  mnZ:::T:tt:zz  -^^<^  ^-ng. 

ions,  fierce,  red  face  nf  f^     •      ^^  "'*°  *^  ^nx- 

mountains 


tains  1 


Chapter  IV. 

One  month  had  passed  and  Winona  had  fully 
recovered  from  her  illness  and  Father  Menard 
was  beginning  to  think  of  his  homeward  journey. 
Much  had  come  to  pass  in  all  this  time  and  the 
good  priest  felt  elated,  and  justly  so.  Geronimo 
and  Winona  had  both  become  deeply  interested 
in  the  story  of  the  Christ  and  many  were  the 
searching  questions  the  Blackrobe  answered. 
One  thing  alone  troubled  him  sorely.  On  several 
occasions,  Geronimo  had  given  utterance  to  his 
great  hatred  of  the  Hurons.  But  he  said  nothing 
of  their  intended  invasion. 

One  evening  the  three  sat  together  in  front  of 
the  chief's  wigwam.  Father  Menard  had  just 
pictured  the  birth  of  the  infant  at  Bethlehem  and 
now  the  spell  of  silence  was  upon  all.  Up  in  the 
beeches  overhead,  a  number  of  squirrels  libbled 
and  frisked  exultingly  and,  several  yards  away, 
a  limpid  brook  made  sweet  music  for  tired  eouls.    - 

The  priest  ran  his  fingers  thoughtlessly  through 
his  beads,  and  Winona  gazed  upon  him  intently. 
Suddenly  Geronimo's  strong  voice  broke  the 
lethargy  of  the  moment:  "To-morrow  the  Black- 
robe  leaves  us  and  we  will  miss  his  kind  face. 
(33) 


34 


WINONA. 


Chief  and  daughter  will  be  lonely  without  him 
and  the  wigwam  will  not  be  as  bright  when  he 
is  gone.  But  he  will  come  again — often — and 
tell  us  stories  of  his  good  God.  The  way  is  not 
long  and  Flying  Eagle  will  always  accompany 
him.  He  knows  every  path  in  the  big  forest. ' ' 
The  chief  eyed  the  priest  for  a  moment  and  his 
voice  melted  into  a  tone  of  pathos,  when  he 
asked:  "Will  Blackrobe  forget  us  or  will  he 
come  again,  as  a  friend,  to  the  camp  of  the 
Iroquois?"  "Certainly,  my  good  man!"  answ- 
ered the  priest,  as  he  rose  from  the  wooden  bench. 
"I  will  come  again — often — to  see  you.  Twice 
every  seven  days,  in  snow  or  rain,  the  Blackrobe 
will  journey  to  your  village  and,  as  sign  of  trust, 
he  leaves  his  crucifix  with  Geronimo.  Great 
chiefl  I  will  be  happy  to  meet  you  and  your 
braves  here  whenever  I  come,  and  you  will  find 
in  me  a  good  friend,"  and  he  handed  Geronimo 
his  precious  crucifix,  as  a  pledge  of  his  promise. 

The  old  man  took  the  proffered  token  and 
pressed  it  to  his  bosom.  Winona,  too,  was  pleased. 
Slowly  she  rose  and  took  the  Blackrobe's  hand 
in  her  own.  "I  am  so  glad  you  will  come 
ag^in,"  she  said.  "Winona  wants  to  become 
your  friend  and  learn  more  about  your  God." 

Just  then,  Geronimo  strode  out  of  the  wigpwam 
and  soon  returned  with  a  bundle  of  rich  furs  and 
skins  under  his  arm.     "Geronimo  brings  his 


WINONA. 


36 


costliest  furs  and  skins  to  the  good  Blackrobe," 
he  said  kindly,  "and  asks  him  to  accept  them  in 
payment  for  his  trouble  and  services.  Skins  and 
furs  are  good — the  best.  They  will  bring  in 
much  money  at  the  trading  post. " 

The  priest  thanked  him  kindly  'n  the  Iroquois 
tongue  and  added:  "But  keep  youi  kins  and  furs, 
my  friend!  I  do  not  seek  to  rob  you  of  these  treas- 
ures. Only  give  me  your  good  will — and  more 
— will  you  let  me  name  my  own  reward?" 

"With  pleasure,  O  my  father!"  answered 
Geronimo  thoughtfully. 

"May  I  ask  you,  then,  in  the  name  of  my  God, 
Geronimo,  to  give  up  all  thought  of  your  pre- 
arranged attack  on  the  Hurons,  who  dwell  peace- 
fully in  yonder  village?  Their  lives  are  dear  to 
me — for  I  love  them.  I  know  the  virulence  of 
an  Iroquois'  hatred — but  you  must  not  harm  my 
children!     Will  you  promise?" 

Geronimo  tossed  his  head  arrogantly  and  bit 
his  lips  in  anger.  That  demon-hatred  was  again 
lashing  his  soul,  his  face  was  re  ^nr  than  ever. 
It  seemed  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body 
had  suddenly  run  to  his  head  to  stimulate  his 
thoughts.  An  indignant  look  crept  into  his  face, 
as  he  stepped  about  proudly,  and  he  was  on  the 
verge  of  refusing,  when  his  eyes  stole  from  the 
priest  to  Winona.  She  trembled  and,  when  he 
saw  that  the  tears  were  gathering  in  her  eyes,  a 


36 


I 
f 
I 


WINONA. 


shnll  cry  smote  the  air  and  he  exclaimed,  almost 
wildly,  as  his  fingers  tightened  about  the  cracifix: 
'  'Geronimo  promises!  Geronimo  promises!  Black- 
robe's  children  shall  live  in  peane! '  •  and  he  sprang 
to  the  priest's  side  and  took  the  outstretched 
hand  in  his  own. 


Chapter  V. 


When  Father  Menard  again  returned  to  Notre 
Dame  de  Larette  all  hearts  were  glad.  Tsohahis- 
sen,  himself,  had  gone  down  the  river  in  his 
canoe  to  meet  him  at  sundown.  Nanette  also 
felt  glad  and,  in  the  little  lodge  by  the  pine  trees, 
the  table  was  set  and  a  brisk  fire  was  burning  in 
the-grate  and  the  trusty  maid  sang  lustily,  as  she 
knitted  carelessly.  There  was  a  rap  at  the  door. 
A  bright  look  stole  into  Nanette's  brown  eyes 
when  the  door  opened  wide  to  let  in  Father  Men- 
ard.    Gladly  she  sprang  forward  to  meet  him. 

"Well,  Nanette,"  he  exclaimed  tenderly  after 
the  evening  meal  was  over,  "any  news  from 
France,  from  home — from  Gabrielle?  Any  letters, 
post-cards,  parcels?" 

"Yes,  my  dear  cousin.  Batiste,  the  French 
trader,  brought  a  letter  yesterday.  Let  me  hope 
it  contains  nothing  but  good  news!"  and  from 
the  drawer  she  took  the  treasured  envelope. 

"Ah,  yes,!  explained  the  priest,  "from  Paris 
— from  the  dear  Countess  Boulanger,"  as  he 
opened  it  carefully.  Then  slowly  he  read  the 
contents  to  Nanette  and  several  times  he  paused 
to  wipe  his  tearful  eyes: 

(87) 


WINONA. 


My  Dear  Son:-Your  last  letter  arrived  safely. 
We  were  glad  to  hear  of  your  good  work  among 
he  Indians.  God  is  with  you  in  that  distant 
land-no  wonder,  then,  that  you  are  happy  and 
contented.  Twenty  yeare  ago  you  leftourLu- 
UM  chateau  and  what  long  yea«  they  were  for 
Gabnelle  and  myself !  But  soon  the  spell  is  to  be 
broken.  Gabrlelle  has  practiced  mVdicine  in 
Pans  faithfully  for  ten  years  and  needs  a  „^ 
badly,  and  he  is  going  to  America  to  visit  Vou 

?Tt  u       ^  ^'^  '°  "*^y  ^*h  yo"  as  long 
as  he  wish^.     I  would  also  like  to  go.  my  dear 
child,  but  rheumatism  has  crippled  me  in  my  old 
days  and  the  ,oumey  would  be  too  much  for  me 
I  suffer  much-but  then  it  is  sweet  to  suffer  one  s 
Calvary  ,n  th.s  life.     Your  brother  has  been  good 
to  me  and  I  will  miss  him  so,  but.  for  your  ^e. 
I  will  make  the  sacrifice.     I  am  sending  you  two 
large  boxes,  containing  much  that  will  be  of  use 
to  you  in  your  forest  home.     I  also  enclose  sev- 
eral dresses  for  Nanette-the  good  child!      Give 
her  my  love      I  will  write  her  in  two  weeks;  my 
rh^imatism  ,s  bad  today  and  my  fingers  are  vJy 

'•Pray  for  me  often,  my  child,  for  God  knows 
my  hfe  s  sun  .s  now  westering  near  the  horizon! 
I  will  never  forget  you  or  Gabrielle.  for  I  have 


WINONA. 


89 


Ic  'ed  you   both,    as  if  you  had  been  my  own 
children. 

"Let  me  hear  from  you  again  when  the  next 
ship  sails. 

"Your  dear, 

"Fanchon  Boulanger." 

The  days  wore  on  and  summer  faded  into  au- 
tumn, and  one  day  in  October,  when  the  winds 
were  cold  and  the  trees  were  aflame  with  color, 
Gabrielle  entered  Notre  Dame  de  Larette  with 
his  French  guide,  tired  and  exhausted,  glad  that 
the  long  journey  was  at  an  end.  The  good  priest 
embraced  him  warmly.  Nanette  was  also  over- 
joyed, and  for  hours  the  three  sat  together  in  the 
candle-light,  chatting  briskly  of  old  friends  and 
old  scenes  of  sunny  France.  Father  Menard  was 
the  picture  of  happiness — his  face  softening  into 
a  smile,  as  from  time  to  time  he  puffed  his  quaint 
old  Normandy  pipe.  Gabrielle  was  very  talk- 
ative, and  often  the  priest's  eyes  rested  on  the 
handsome  figure  of  his  brother  in  the  jre-light, 
with  his  thickly  set  shoulders  and  manly  brow. 
His  face  was  fresh  and  ruddy  and  on  it  were 
written  lines  of  tenderness  and  expression.  Two 
dark,  dreamy  eyes — such  as  poets  love  to  sing  of 
— flashed  continually  and  softened  into  sunshiny 
smiles.  Verily,  he  was  a  fine  specimen  of  man- 
hood— a  sturdy  young  oak,  erect,  strong  and 
promising  in  the  fresh  light  of  life's  morning. 


Chapter  VI. 

The  winter  passed  slowly  by,  and  Gabrielle  of- 
ten accompanied  his  brother  on  his  visits  to  the 
Iroquo.s  village.  The  Indians  received  b^S 
kmdly  and  the  work  in  the  mission  w  JprosSf 
2  Hearts  that  had  been  cold  now^e™ 
ner  m.nds  expanded  and  life  held  forthToftLr 
Ideals  to  these  poorred  children.  A  new  awaken 
2  was  taking  place,  a  new  dawn  wasTasX^." 

To  Gabrielle.  this  wild  life  of  the  forest  seemed 
glonous;  he  fairly  revelled  in  the  new  S  af 

bnght  and  the  minutes  so  fleeting  and  joyous 
Some  strange  thing  had  stolen  imo  his^b^^n^.' 
He  felt   he  was  a  different  man-he  knewT 

the  halls  of  his  memory  were  lively  with  inte^S' 
A  new  people  thronged  its  corridors  and.  Sve 
all  else,  the  sunlight  of  a  woman's  face^Wn! 
ona  s-was  continually  upon  him.  Go  where  he 
might,  there  she  stood  before  him.  you'g  viv! 
aoous  and  beautiful.  He  could  not  for^  Z 
From  out  that  new  sea  of  faces  hers  stL  Z 


WINONA. 


41 


clear  and  distinct,  singular,  striking  and  beauti- 
ful, and,  above  all,  so  un-Indian-like— a  face 
that  would  have  set  the  brain  of  sculptor  and 
artist  alike  mad  with  delight. 

All  that  winter  and  following  spring  Gabrielle 
had  not  breathed  a  word  of  his  admiration  of 
Winona  to  his  priest-brother.     Both  toiled  faith- 
fully on,  the  one  tending  to  the  bodily,  the  other 
to  the  spiritual  wants  of  the  two  Indian  missions. 
But  in  his  heart  Gabrielle  tre  isured  many  a  happy 
secret.     The  warm  admiration  of  those  first  days 
was  now  leading  him  into  avenues,  rich  with 
asphodel  and  rose,  and  here  it  was  a  new  and 
mighty  feeling  overpowered  him  which  made  of 
life    a    beautiful    abode,    where  flowers   shone 
brightly  and  birds  sang  unceasingly  to  the  heart 
that  had  never  before  realized  what  it  was  to  love 
an  ideal  woman.     Love  had  stolen  in  gradually 
and  quietly  and,  now  that  she  had  placed  her 
delicate  fingers  upon  him,  his  temples  throbbed 
hotly  and  he  often  dreamed  of  a  day  in  the  future 
and  prayed  that  his  dream  might  come  true. 

A  year  and  a  half  passed  by  and  many  happy 
hours  had  Gabrielle  spent  in  Winona's  company. 
He  had  studied  hard  and  now  conversed  freely 
In  the  Iroquois  tongue.  Winona,  too,  proved 
herself  an  apt  pupil  of  the  former  and  was  quite 
happy  in  being  able  to  express  herself  in  French. 
Geronimo,  also,  was  delighted  with  his  daugh- 


42 


WINOKA. 


ter's  progress  and,  in  his  eyes,  Gabrielle  was  the 
sum-total  of  perfection  itself. 

One  evening,    late  in  summer,    the  Indians 
were  gathered  in  an  open  space  listening  atten- 
tively to  Father  Menard's  words  of  gratitude. 
Now,  that  the  last  barriers  between  the  Hurons 
and  the  Iroquois  had  crumbled  away,  the  good 
priest  felt  elated  that  at  last  the  two  nations  had ' 
signed  a  treaty  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  each 
other.     But  an  hour  ago  the  peace  proceedings 
had  been  in  progress.     Tsohahissen  had  come  in 
person  to  extend  the  good  wishes  of  his  people 
and  Geronimo  received  him  kindly.     And,  pow, 
they  sat  side  by  side,  the  two  strong  heads  of  the 
two  villages,    the  two  chiefs    who   had  often 
clashed  battle-axes,  the  two  men  who  had  nour- 
ished a  fierce  and  deadly  hatred  for  years,  no 
longer  enemies  but  friends— both  having  white 
souls  to  redeem,   with  God  as  common  Father 
and  Master. 

Gabrielle  and  Winona  had  stolen  away  from 
the  crowd  to  a  bench  in  a  thicket  of  saplings, 
not  far  off,  and  the  glorious  moon,  that  hung 
like  a  golden  crescent  above  the  spruces  and 
hemlocks  and  gray  hills,  seemed  to  pause  on  her 
journey  and  listen  for  the  sound  of  their  glad 
voices. 

Gabriell;  s  hand  stole  warmly  into  Winona's 
and  for  a  moment  silence  reigned,  while  the 


WINONA. 


48 


music  of  a  distant  water-fall  played  a  strange  in- 
terlude. At  last  Gabrielle's  lips  parted.  "  Win- 
onal"  he  exclaimed  passionately,  "the  longer  I 
look  into  your  glowing  eyes,  the  hotter  bums 
this  fever  within,  that  has  been  consuming  me 
for  many  a  day.  I  would  have  told  you  long  ago 
but  I  dared  not.  I  was  afraid  lest  you  might 
crush  me.  You  are  the  little  princess  of  my 
heart's  kingdom — Winonal  I  love  youl  Hear 
me — Winona — I  love  youl  Will  you  become 
my  wife?"  And,  unconsciously,  he  drew  her  to 
his  breast  and  their  lips  met — but  it  was  only 
for  a  second. 

Winona's  face  looked  white  in  the  moonlight 
and  she  raised  herself  from  him  like  a  frightened 
bird.  It  was  all  so  sudden  and  her  heart  was  at 
a  standstill.  "Love  me  Gabriel le?  How  can 
you?"  she  spoke  tremblingly.  "I  am  only  an 
Indian — you  are  so  grand,  so  noble,  so  good. 
You  should  despise  me — and  yet  you  say  you 
love  me.  Nol  Nol  I  cannot  become  your  wife, 
and  yet — and  yet — ' '  She  paused  a  moment,  her 
cheeks  were  hot  and  in  her  eyes  tears  gathered. 
"And  yet, "  she  sobbed,  "I  love  you,  Gabrielle. 
I  had  never  known  what  love  was  until  you 
came. ' ' 

Silently  her  hand  stole  into  his  and  she  drew 
herself  to  him,  like  some  frail  thing  seeking  pro- 
tection in  his  strong  arms. 


44 


WtNONA. 


J"  « then  there  was  a  stir  in  the  thicket  but 

thetwo  did  not  heed  it.     In  a  moment  two  wild, 

fiery  eyes  were  riveted  on  them.    The  moonlight 

was  full  upon  the  gloating,  angry  face;  the  teeth 

were  set,  the  eyes  were  hateful,  fiery  balls  and, 

from  them,  shone  a  demon-like  depair.     It  was 

Flying  Eagle.     Wolf-like,  he  had  tracked  the 

innocent  lamb  to  her  lair;  his  eyes  had  looked 

on  a  scene  he  had  too  well  expected,  and,  as  he 

raised  his  lithe  body  into  the  air,  there  was  a 

look  of  determination  in  them  as  he  whispered 

hotly:     "You  pale-facel     I  hate  youl    I  will 

kill  youl      Yes,    kill  you— you    French    dogi 

You  love  Winona— hal  hal  She  will  yet  be  mine 

and  I  will  step  over  your  corpse  to  make  her  my 

bride.     Flying  Eagle  loves  Winona  with  all  his 

wild,  red  heart  but  he  hates,  and  will,  kill,  the 

French  dogi"    Then  he  stood  ready  to  spring 

upon  them  both  like  some  wild  thing,  but  he  bit 

his  lips  and  raised  his  clenched  fist  into  the  air  and , 

with  a  curse  on  his  lips,  crept  through  the  long 

grass,  like  a  deadly,  hissing  snake. 

That  night  Gabrielle  opened  his  heart  to  his 
brother  and  told  him  how  he  had  decided  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  with  the  Indians 
and,  at  some  time  in  the  near  future,  take  Win- 
ona unto  himself  as  wife.  The  priest  was  pleas- 
ed and  inwardly  congratulated  himself  that  he 
had  such  a  brother  and  that  he  was  to  get  so 


WINONA. 


45 


handsome  and  virtuous  a  wife  as  Winona.  At 
first  the  question  of  caste  thrust  itself  upon  him, 
and  the  thought  of  his  brother  marrying  an  In- 
dian caused  him  to  revolt  inwardly,  but  in  an  in- 
stant the  feeling  left  him. 

"She  is  good,"  he  thought.  "Winona  is  one 
of  God's  creatures  and  her  soul  is  just  as  white 
and  pure  in  His  eyes  as  that  of  any  white  woman. ' ' 


Chapter  VII. 

Preparations  for  the  marriage  ceremony  had 
been  in  progress  for  some  weeks.     The  heart  of 
Geronimo  never  beat  more  proudly  than  on  the 
night  Winona  told  him  of  Gabrielle's  love  and 
devotion.     To-morrow,  at  sunrise,  Mass  was  to 
be  celebrated  at  the  altar  in  the  grove  of  oines 
nearby,  and  Father  Menard  was  to  pronounce 
the  two,  man  and  wife.     The  whole  Huron  tribe, 
led  by  Tsohahissen,  were 'invited  and  would  at- 
tend the  cermony  in  a  body  and,  with  the  Iro- 
quois decked  in  all  their  battle  array,  the  con- 
gregation would  no  doubt  not  only  be  great  in 
numbers  but  also  grand  in  their  gorgeous  dis- 
play of  finery  and  color. 

Only  one  soul  in  the  two  villages  was  restless. 
It  was  Flying  Eagle.  Not  many  moons  before 
the  last  winter  had  set  in,  he  had  told  Winona 
of  his  love  for  her— but  she  had  spumed  him  and 
he  had  never  forgiven  her  for  it.  And,  strange, 
he  stiU  loved  her.  The  roots  had  grown  down 
too  deeply  into  his  heart.  During  all  the  days 
that  passed,  he  had  played  his  part  so  well  that 
no  one  suspected  treachery  on  his  part.  He  stood 
a  favorite  in  all  their  eyes,  especially  in  Geron- 
(46) 


WINONA. 


47 


imo's.  Winona,  too,  thought  that  the  old-time 
love  for  her  was  all  forgotten,  and  happily  await- 
ed the  morrow. 

That  night,  after  the  whole  village  was  asleep, 
the  figure  of  a  man  could  be  seen  gliding  through 
the  grove  of  pine  trees,  where  the  altar  stood 
ready  for  the  morrow's  ceremony.  It  was  Flying 
Eagle.  Where  was  he  going.'  Had  his  last 
plans,  to  which  straws  of  hope  he  had  clung  like 
a  dying  man,  been  again  frustrated  and  was  he 
now  making  good  his  escape  to  die  out  among 
the  lonely  hills  in  despair? 


Chapter  VIII. 

Early  next  morning  the  Indians  were  astir 
with  excitement.    Throngs  of  Hurons  and  Iro- 
quois swarmed  the  forest— men,    women   and 
children  of  all  ages  and  sizes— and  the  chatter  of 
their  many  voices  drowned  the  music  of  the  large 
river  that  flowed  through  the  nearby  marshes. 
Presently,  the  chimes  announced  the  hou'r  for 
Mass.    All  betook  themselves  to  the  pine  grove. 
Father  Menard  was  robing  for  the  Mass.     Geron- 
imo  and  Tsohahissen  were  already  in  their  places 
and  near  the  front  knelt  Winona  and  Gabrielle, 
their  faces  aglow  with  an  almost  superhuman 
joy- 
When  the  Mass  began,   a  silence  as  of  the 
tomb,  fell  upon  the  kneeling  multitude.      Not 
even  a  child  cried  or  spoke,   and  there  were 
many  present.      All  was  happiness  and  quiet, 
save  for  the  sweet-voiced  choristers  in  the  trees, 
intoning  their  litanies  of  joy.     It  was  a  happy 
hour— 

"breathless  with   adoration," 

and  many  an  eye  followed  the  officiating  priest 

at  the  altar.     And  now  the  priest  turned,  facing 

the  people,  chalice  in  hand,  and,  as  the  chimes 

(48) 


■If 


WINONA. 


49 


rang  out  three  times,  all  heads  were  bowed  in 
prayer.  Slowly,  reverently,  he  walked  towards 
the  kneeling  pair  and,  bowing,  administered  to 
both  the  Communion.  Both  knelt  in  prayer  for 
a  moment  and  then  rose  to  go  to  their  seats. 
No  sooner  had  they  turned,  facing  the  crowd, 
when  an  arrow  whizzed  quickly  through  the  air. 
Few  had  seen  it— it  had  come  so  rapidly— but 
all  heard  the  shrill  cry  that  came  from  a  stagger- 
ing woman's  lips. 

Father  Menard  turned  and,  rushing  from  the 
altar,  saw  what  had  happened  just  as  Gabrielle 
caught  Winona  in  his  arms.  The  arrow  had 
only  grazed  her  cheek,  and  a  look  of  gratitude 
was  on  the  priest's  kindly,  old  face  By  this 
time  the  people  were  panic-stricken  but  the 
priest  motioned  them  back. 

They  laid  Winona  down  gently  in  the  grass 
and  for  a  moment  the  two  brothers  watched  the 
pale  face  of  the  stricken  woman.  Just  then,  a 
second  arrow  hissed  through  the  air,  striking 
the  priest's  breast  just  as  he  had  bent  over  to 
bathe  Winona's  dry  lips  with  water. 

The  poor,  old  priest  raised  himself  suddenly, 
his  trembling  hands  on  the  arrow  that  stuck  fast. 
A  sickly  groan  escaped  from  him  and  he  sank  to 
the  ground,  powerless— a  dying  man— on  his 
lips  a  word  of  prayer  to  his  Maker  and  his  God. 
The  Indians  Jiad  how  swarmed  around  the  dy- 


60 


WINONA. 


ing  priest,  their  hearts  sick  with  sorrow.  The 
whole  forest  was  filled  with  sobbing  me  ,  women 
and  chilA-en.  Tsohahiasen  and  Geronimo  were 
at  Father  Menard's  side  and  Gabrielle  was  busy 
administering  restoratives  and  dressing  the 
wound.  The  arrow  had  pierced  the  priest's 
heart.     He  could  not  live. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  crash  as  of  breaking  tim- 
ber, and  the  faithful  priest's  eyes  opened  just  in 
time  to  see  a  man,  bow  and  arrow  in  hand,  faUing 
to  earth.  The  branch  of  a  pine  tree  overhead ,  on 
which  the  murderer  had  been  standing  and  hid- 
ing, had  broken  at  the  worst  possible  time— only 
to  deliver  him  into  the  hands  of  his  captors  It 
T.as  Flying  Eagle-his  weight  had  been  too 
much  for  the  bough,  from  which  he  had  sent 
his  deadly  arrows. 

"KiU  himl  Kill  himi"  came  from  hundreds 
of  throats,  as  he  fell  to  the  ground.  Tsohahissen 
and  Geronimo  sprang  from  the  priest's  side,  their 
faces  aflame  with  a  bitter  anger. 

The  dying  priest  heard  the  cry.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  motioned  the  two  chiefs  back,  as  he 
said  huskily:  "Nol  nol  You  must  not  kill  him 
— .  forgive  Flying  Eagle.  Do  not  touch  a  hair 
of  his  headi  God  alone  has  the  right  to  punish 
and  take  life.  I  die  happy_my-work-is  done 
—and— I— see  the  gates— of  heaven— opening. 
I— have— been  the  peace-maketv-Ir-am   going 


WINONA. 


61 


—into— the  Lijfhtl  Good-bye— Gabrielle  I— 
Good-bye— Winona!— Good-bye— all!"  The 
trembling  hands  slowly  raised  the  crucifix  to  the 
lips— the  passing  soul  hovered  a  moment  on  the 
brink  of  eternity— and  then  life  was  extinct. 

Gabrielle  stole  to  Winona's  side  and  wept 
bitteriy.  Now  that  his  brother  had  passed  out 
of  his  young  life  forever,  his  heart  was  fast 
breaking.  There  was  nothing  to  comfort  him, 
for  Winona  still  lay  there  unconscious.  Would 
her  soul,  also,  pass  through  those  golden  gates 
into  the  land  where  it  is  always  morning? 
Would  her  eyes  never  open  again— if  only  for  a 
moment— that  he  might  look  into  their  blue 
depths?  Oh  I  if  she  would  only  wake  that  he 
might  speak  but  one  word  to  her  before  she  goes! 

The  people  were  wild  with  excitement  and  the 
mob  would  have  torn  Flying  Eagle  to  pieces  had 
not  Tsohahissen  and  Geronimo  interceded. 
Both  bore  painful  expressions— they  realized 
that  the  great  friend  of  the  red  man  was  gone 
and  amidst  a  flow  of  tears  tried  to  assuage  the 
sorrow  of  their  people. 

The  Blackrobe's  tender  voice  was  forever 
hushed  and  their  hearts  were  breaking,  for  they 
knew  that  never  again  would  it  music  forth  mel- 
odies to  tired  hearts  from  life's  plaintive  keys. 
And  the  touch  of  that  gentle  handl  How  the 
children  would  wait  in  vain,  through  the  long 


62 


WINONA. 


winters  and  summers,  for  the  little  pat  on 
their  chubby  cheeks,  which  he  never  forgot  to 
give.  Geronimo  at  once  returned  to  the  side  of 
his  daughter  after  he  had  spoken  to  his  people. 
Winona  stirred  restlessly.  Her  face  grew  warm- 
er and  her  eyes  suddenly  opened.  They  greeted 
Gabrielle's. 

"Where  am  I?  What  has  happened?"  she 
sighed  faintly.  '*0,  take  me  away  from  herel 
You  are  crying— and  on  our  wedding-dayl 
Everything  seems  so  strange  to  me — and  fatUer 
—he  is  crying.     Oh  I  what  is  the  matter?    Am  I 

dreaming?"    The  two  men  could  not  speak 

their  hearts  were  breaking  with  grief. 

Then  she  turned  her  head.  Her  eyes  fell  up- 
on the  body  of  the  priest  nearby,  whose  face  bore 
a  smile  and  looked  heavenwards.  Winona  rais- 
ed herself  on  her  arms  and  stared  vainly.  "He 
isdead— OhI  theBlackrobe  is  deadi"  she  sobbed 
and  fell  back  overcome  with  emotion. 

And,  for  some  time,  the  three  wept  together. 


I 


li: 


Chapter  T.X. 

Flying  Eagle  was  surrounded  and  watched  all 
that  day,  but  in  the  night  made  his  escape 
and,  being  fleet  of  foot,  easily  ouban  his  pur- 
suers. And  from  that  day  on  not  a  soul  ever 
heard  of  Flying  Eagle  again. 

It  is  thought  that  in  some  lonely  spot  far  be- 
yond the  eastern  hills,  far  away  from  the  sound 
of  human  voice,  he  spends  sunless  and  miserable 
days,  without  friend,  without  test.  Even  the  wild 
animals  of  the  glen  seem  to  spurn  him  like  some 
deadly,  loathsome  thing.  His  life  is  a  torture  and 
a  burden  and  his  heart  suffers  a  remorse  that  is 
known  only  to  those  who  feel  the  silent  penalty 
of  crime. 

For  days  Winona's  life  hung  by  a  thread. 
The  arrow  that  had  grazed  her  cheek  had  been 
poisoned  with  curari— that  deadly  Indian  poison 
— and  a  violent  toxaemia  fast  undermined  her 
vitality. 

Gabrielle  called  all  the  resources  of  his  pro- 
fession to  bis  aid  and  fought  the  disease  vigor- 
ously and,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  going  to  win, 
his  heart  gav?  a  bound  of  joy  that  set  his  nen'es 
a-tingling.  Winona  was  to  live  after  all— and 
he  thanked  God  for  it. 

(53) 


Chapter  X. 


Years  and  years  have  passed  since  the  open- 
ing chapter  in  this  story.  The  Huron  and  Iro- 
quois tribes  are  no  more.  Another  race  of  men 
inhabit  the  country  where  once  they  lived  and 
roamed.  Notre  Dame  de  Larette  is  only  a  mem- 
ory  of  other  days.  In  its  place,  a  great  city  has 
nsen  up,  filled  with  the  spirit  of  a  happy  pro- 
giess.  The  little  chapel  down  by  the  pine  grJve, 
which  stands  to  this  day,  is  the  only  relic  of  the 
past.  Gabrielle  erected  it  over  his  brother's 
grave.  In  it  also  rest  all  that  is  earthly  of  Win- 
ona and  Gabrielle. 

A  few,  old  settlers  still  remain  and,  sitting  by 
the  fireside  on  the  cold  winter  evenings,  with 
pipes  in  hand,  they  love  to  tell  the  tale  of  these 
red  children,  as  they  heard  it  in  the  long  ago 
from  the  lips  of  some  reminiscent  grandfather 
or  grandmother.    And  then  the  story  of  Winona 
and  Gabrielle  flowers  in  their  minds,  and  the 
heroic  mission  of  the  good  old  Blackrobe,  who 
struggled  on  and  fought  the  fight  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  and  eyes  grow  moist  and 
hearts  expand  and  bum  with  lore  for  those  sil- 
ent figures  that  grace  the  brilliant  kaleidoscope 
(54) 


WINONA.  05 

of  the  past  in  aback-ground  of  spreading  spmoe, 
maple  and  pine. 

And,  as  long  as  men  are  men,  such  honest, 
good  souls  as  Father  Menard— men  who  fight 
ihe  battle  in  life's  most  secluded  and  despised 
fields,  will  ever  occupy  a  lasting  place  in  the 
silent  niches  of  the  world's  great  martyrs. 

Winona  and  Gabrielle  also  live  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people  and  to  this  day  even  the  little  child- 
ren love  to  sit  around  and  listen  to  the  stoiy  of 
the  beautiful  bride  of  the  foi-est 


THE  PROFESSOR'S  SECRET. 


Chaptkr  I. 

A  few  gleams  of  sunshine  stole  playfully  into 
the  large,  cheerful  music  room  and  threw  their 
dreamy  shadows  on  a  white,  marble  bust  of 
Beethoven  that  stood  on  the  piano  in  the  comer. 
Signor  Francesco  Bottini  had  be^n  busy  most  of 
the  afternoon  and  there,  at  his  table  he  still  sat, 
pouring  over  the  manuscripts  of  a  new  Requiem 
Mass,  which  he  had  just  completed.  His  eyes 
had  a  satisfied  look  in  them,  and,  deep  in  his 
heart,  he  knew  that  he  had  written  his  master- 
piece—something  that  would  at  last  ring  itself 
into  the  ears  of  the  musical  critics. 

Presently,  he  rose  and  walked  to  the  window 
and,  brushing  back  the  heavy  damask  curtains, 
his  eyes  wandered  down  into  the  busy,  throbbing 
street,  pulsating  with  life.  Dear  old  St.  Patrick's 
across  the  street,  looked  radiant  in  her  twilight 
glory  and  over  the  distant,  lone,  blue  hills  the 
.sun  was  throwing  his  la.st,  bright  shafts  of  light. 
Without,  everything  was  bright  and  cheerful, 
but  within  the  heart  of  the  old  professor,  all  was 
dark  and  desolate.  As  he  stood  there  one  could  not 
(57) 


n 


THK  PKOPKaSOK'S  SKCKMT. 


^nd  the«  w.,  .  bold  .weep  of  fullnei  In  W. 
•ppea«nce.  His  hair  wm  bl«:k  as  the  ravw 
^  it  wmewhat  intensified  the  golden  Snt  S  hi! 
oomple«on.  On  hia  face  were  written  <«™i 
new^refinement  and  great  depth  of  chanuter. 
It  waa  a  face  of  marvellous  sweetness  and  great 
gentleness  and.  ^et.  there  was  «  latent  sad^ 
m  those  dark,  fiery,  dancing  eyes.  whosT^c^ 
no  one  conld  undersund.  «uch'le;sTat^C^ 
For  a  moment.  Signor  Bottini  sighed  heavily 

piano      His  eyes  were  moist  and  his  fingers 
trembled  as  they  moved  slowly  over  the  cSd 
vory  keys.     He  was  playing  the  "Misere,?- 

I„^i!"i!'~°*^  "*  ^'''*''  J»«fe"ow-conntryman 
.nd  t^chei^nd  thesad.  plaintive  tones  s^ 

2r^hV^f^" ''"'*"'''''»*""•  The  tender 
•  r,  that  followed,  was  sweet  and  stirring.  It 
•^s|^ed  to  appeal  strongly  to  the  Signor's 
P^nt  feehngs  and  several  large  team  rolled 
down  his  cheeks. 

"Horten.sel-   he  whispered  tenderly,  "Hor. 
hr^nir'*^"'     ^'--^J-Wm'ercy'n 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door  and.  suddenly,  a 
welWrest,  young  Italian  entered.     It  wa.  An- 


THK  pkupiumok's  skckkt. 


60 


lieiico,  the  profeMor's  trusty  office-boy  and  hia 
voice  had  a  ring  of  freshness  in  it  when  he  aaid: 
"Signorl   Madamoiselle  Laportel" 
The  old  man  read  the  perfumed  card  and  ex- 
claimed:    "Please  show  theyoung  lady  up-staire 
Angelico!"  ' 

The  door  closed  genUy  and,  in  a  few  moments 
opened  again.  "I  am  delighted  to  see  you 
Signor,"  came  from  the  handsome,  young  wom- 
an, as  she  entered  the  study,  gowned  in  a  simple 
dress  of  black.  "But  you  are  not  well-you 
look — " 

"I  am  pretty  well,  Felice."  interrupted  the 
professor.  "Tistrue.  I  look  somewhat  strange 
—but  that  is  nothinp.  child.  You  see  I  am  so 
troubled  and  worried  with  my  new  Mass  and  this 
accounts  for  it.  But  pardon  me.  how  are  you. 
Felice?  I  have  missed  you  in  my  study.  Yon 
were  always  so  bright  and  cheerful." 

The  soft,  deep  eyes— blue  as  the  aea— suddenly 
opened  and  the  young  woman  replird  somewhat 
nervously:  "I  am  not  well,  Signor.  There  is  a 
wound  deep  in  my  heart,  that  Time  alone  can 
heal.  Since  God,  in  His  wisdot ..  took  Hortense 
away  from  us.  our  home  has  been  enijiti .  With 
her  went  its  brightest  sunbeam,  its  purest  flower 
and  its  highest  and  noblest  inspiration.  Six 
months  have  gone  by  since  that  sad  day  and 


60 


THK  PROFKSSOR'S  SKCRKT. 


dear,  old  mother's  heart  will  never  be  the  same 
again.     To-day  mother  asked  me  to  open  the 
piano.     It  was  the  first  time  for  many  days     I 
sang  for  her  and  when  I  turned  she  was  smiUng. 
It  was  the  first  smile  I  had  seen  on  mother's  fa^ 
in  all  these  long,  weary  months-and.   oh,  it 
made  my  heart  so  glad.     Then  she  came  over 
anr   put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  said: 
Fehce,  my  child  you  must  call  in  and  see  Signor 
Bottin.and  arranb  with  him  for  your  singing 
lessons.     The  house  is  empty  since  Hor^nse 
sings  no  more.     I  miss  her  in  the  parlor,  in  t^e 
cathedral,  intheconcert-hall-here.  there,  every- 
wnere— and  I  want  you  to  take  her  place." 

Signor,  will  you  then  for  mother's  sake,  for 
Hortense's  sake,  take  an  interest  in  me?" 

"Certainly.  Felice."  answered  the  dear,  old 
musician.  "For  your  mother's  sake,  for  Hor- 
tense  s  sake,  I  will  do  anything.  There  are 
great  possibilities  in  your  voice,  my  child,  and  I 
know  you  will  succeed  because  you  work  dili- 
gently. Only  to-day  I  met  Father  O'Brien  and 
he  rep-etted  that  Hortense's  place  had  not  yet 
^en  filled  m  the  choir.  <The  pure,  innocent 
^ul  he  said,,  'how  we  have  missed  her!  But 
God  knew  best.  He  heard  her  voice.  It  was  clear 
and  penetrating  like  a  lark's  and  He  called  her 
to  s,ng  His  praises,  in  that  heavenly  choir 
whose  sweetness  surpasses   all  understanding  * 


THE  professor's  SECRET. 


61 


Felicel  the  position  is  open.     Work  hard— and 
you  may  yet  fill  your  dead  sister's  place. ' ' 

When  Felice  Laporte  was  gone,  Signer  Bottini 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  young  girl  had  not 
surmised,  in  fact  did  not  know,  that  the  very 
mention  of  Hortense's  name  was  extremely  pain- 
ful to  him  and  recalled  many  prscious  memories, 
that  echoed  through  the  sacred  aisles  of  the  past.' 
He  walked  to  the  window— fhe  day  was  getting 
darker  and  down  in  the  streets  the  newsboys 
were  busy.  Then  he  stirred  the  fire  in  the  grate 
and,  for  a  long  time,  watched  the  flames  leaping 
wildly  in  their  mad  endeavor  to  get  away  up  the 
chimney.  Then  he  sank  into  an  arm-chair  and 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  whispered  under 
his  breath: 

"You  may  yet  fill  your  dead  sister's  place! 
Ah,  yes!  you  may— but  there  is  one  place  your 
voice  can  never  reach,  FeUce.  It  is  the  audience- 
chamber  of  my  heart  and  when  Hortense— bright 
bird— stopped  singing,  I  closed  its  doore  upon 
the  cold  world  forever." 


i  ^  i : 

Jill 

1 1 II 


Chapter  ir. 

MadamoiselleHortenseUporte,  though  yontiR 
^  years,  had  been  a  power  in  her  native  city 
Everywhere  she  was  heralded  as  a  musical  ptod- 
igy-a  bom  artist-and  her  beautiful,  cultivated 
vo.ce  stamped  her  at  once  as  one  of  the  leading 
pnma  donnas.     Si^or  Bottini  was  proud  of  his 
talented  pupil  and  wrote  an  opera  especially  for 
her   in  which  she  fairly  electrified  her  audience^ 
with  her  marveUous.  soprano  voice.     She  had 
many  rich  triumphs-yet.  withal,  hers  was  the 
st^same.  unassuming,  beautiful,  christian  char- 
acter, that  won  its  way  right  into  the  heart  of 
everyone.     She  was  loved  by  all  classes  of  peo- 
pie  and  the  poor  of  many  cities  were  pleased  to 
call  her  their  queen  of  song,   because  she  had 
repeatedly  given  so  much  of  her  income  and  ser- 
vices to  lighten  tneir  burdens.     But  in  the  height 
of  her  glory  she  was  stricken  down  with  the  fe- 
ver   while  watching  at  the  bedside  of  herwid- 

'Ti'"°S**'"'^*''"'  "^ver  recovered  from  the 
attack.  Her  death  was  regretted  everywhere  and 
especially  in  her  native  city  and  none  felt  her  loss 
more  keenly  than  Signor  Bottini.  Often  he 
would  say  to  himself:  "Since  Hortense  has 
(62) 


THB  PROFESSOR'S  SECRBT. 


63 


gone  out  of  my  life.  I  feel  so  lonely.     My  nights 
are  restless  and  my  days  are  sunless.  • '    Then  he 
would  mutter  loving  words  and  ask  God  to  bless 
his  lost  one  with  eternal  sunshine  and  happiness. 
The  days  were  getting  longer  and,  with  his 
many  pupils  and  choir  rehearsals,   Bottini  was 
an  overworked  man.     The  membere  of  the  St 
Patrick's  choir  were  simply  delighted  with  the 
new  Requiem  Mass  and  all  were  diligently  pre- 
paring their  respective  parts.     Felice,  too,  was 
putting  her  whole  soul  into  her  music  and  Signor 
Bottini  was  more  than  pleased  with  his  new 
1  enfant  adorable,"    for  she  was,    without  a 
doubt,  the  most  promising  of  his  many  pupils. 

One  day  she  came  to  his  cozy  studio  for  her 
lesson  and  expressed  her  delight  at  finding  the 
Signor  in  better  spirits.  "Ah,  Signor!"  she 
said.  "I  am  delighted  to  find  you  so  happy. 
Do  you  know,  I  often  used  to  wonder  why  the 
heart  of  my  old  professor  should  always  be  so 
sad." 

Signor  Bottini  raised  himself  up  in  his  chair, 
straight  as  an  arrow,  and  said,  with  much  feeling- 
Felice,  my  past  has  man  ir  tender  memories  and 
the  poet  strikes  the  proper  keynote  when  he 
sings: 

"There  is  in  each  life  some  time  or  spot, 
Some  hour  or  moment  of  night  or  day, 
That  never  grows  dim  and  is  never  foigot 


64 


THB  PROPBSSOR'S  SKCRET. 


Like  an  unfaded  leaf  in  a  dead  bouquet. 
Some  rare  season,  however  brief, 

That  stands  forever  and  aye  the  same— 
A  sweet,  bright  picture  in  bas-relief 
Hanging  before  us  iu  Memory's  frame." 
Felice  I,aporte  stood  like  one  transfixed,  star- 
ing  into  space  and   did   not   seem  to  under- 
stand or  catch  the  meaning  of  those  words. 

When  the  lesson  was  over  Signor  Bottini  rose 
from  the  piano  and  cbmplained  of  being  dizzy.  He 
walked  a  few  steps;  a  strange,  wild  look  crept 
into  his  face— he  tottered  from  side  to  side  then 
staggered  and  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  heavy 
crash.  Felic  uttered  a  wild  cry  and  Angelico, 
upon  hearing  the  noise,  quickly  ran  upstaire. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Madamoiselle?"  he 
gasped. 

"The  Signor  has  fainted.  I  am  afraid  he  is 
dying,"  cried  Felice,  distractedly.  -Run  for 
the  priest  and  the  doctorl  Quick,  Angelicol 
There's  not  a  moment  So  lose)  Run  for  your 
very  life!" 

Felice,  poor  girt,  was  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
She  tried  to  arouse  the  poor  man  but  alas!  it  was 
useless.  Father  O'Brien  and  Dr.  McCabe  ar- 
nved  in  a  few  minutes  and  lifted  the  dying  man 
to  the  couch. 

"Is  there  any  danger  to  life,  Doctor?"  asked 


THK  PROFESSOR'S  SKCRBT.  Q5 

mfn?^  ^"*'  "'"^"'•'"  "--"-'y.  after  a  few 
HoV  '  a  j;^^:  t^  ^  !- --,  condi. 

a^«I^cst...-,trHa.et^-rrr 
aee'  his  left  arm  is  paralyzed!" 

TL^  ^"  Signor^he  poor  Signer!" 

and  she  wept  convulsively.  '^■snori 

There  was  some  talk,  later,  of  taking  him  to 
the  hjpatal  but  Felice  interposed,  "if^y^'^^ 
aie.    Father,"     she   pleaded      "le^  i«  k-  T 

here,  m  this  very  room,  surrounded  on  all  sides 

by  h,s  books!     Let  it  be  here  in  the  light  of^ 

•  'f^'^"  f  .^-''^-here  in  the  presence  of  Ws  J^r 

pmno-h«  life's  best  friend,  whose  heaiitnWs 

hrartTsr:""  'r  T  "''"^'  •-'^oningtouS 
his  artist-t  ,gers!     I  will  stay  with  him  until  the 

I  will  be  a  fnendtohim,  not  only  for  my  sake 
but  also  for  the  sake  of  Hortense  "  A  nT  »7i   ^u 
long  Fell      w.,hedand  pjy^jat  fh;d:^^S 
of  her  fnend  and  benefactor. 

Three  weeks  had  passed  and,  in  the  comae  of 

^hadmadegreatprogress.    Dr.  McCabel^ 
»««  than  pleased  and  would  say  laughing^ 


THE  PROFESSOR'S  SECRET. 


"Felice,    it  was  your  good  nursing  that  saved 
him." 

The  Signor's  return  to  condousness  was  grad- 
ual and,  now  that  his  senses  were  perfectly  re- 
stored, he  conversed  freely  with  his  many  pupils, 
who  daily  swarmed  around  his  bedside  to  spend 
a  few  minutes  with  their  dear  old  professor. 
Another  month  glided  by.  Signor  Bottini  was 
still  very  weak  and  had  not  yet  left  his  bed. 
Surgeons  and  neurologists  were  called  in— every- 
thing was  tried  to  restore  movement  and  sensa- 
tion to  his  paralyzed  arm.  Rest,  massage,  elec 
tricity — all  had  so  far  proven  useless  and  dame 
Rumor  now  had  it  that  the  Signor  would  never 
get  the  use  of  his  arm — ^that  he  would  never  play 
the  pipe-organ  in  old  St.  Patrick's  again. 

One  afternoon  the  professor  sent  for  the  organ-  - 
ist  who  was  relieving  him  at  the  cathedral  and 
who,  was  an  ex-pupil  of  his,  saying  that  he  had 
something  of  importance  to  tell  him.  '  'You  see, 
Richter,"  he  began,  when  he  arrived,  "on 
Thursday  of  next  week  Father  O'Brien  will  cele- 
brate an  anniversary  Requiem  for  the  repose  of 
the  soul  of  Mile.  Hortense  Laporte  and  I  would 
like  to  have  the  occasion  marked  with  special 
music,  for  she  was  a  faithful  and  staunch  mem- 
ber of  the  choir.  My  new  Requiem  Mass  has 
not  yet  been  produced  and  I  would  like  to  have 
it  sung  on  that  day.     Several  months  ago,  just 


THK  PROFESSOR'S  SECRET.  07 

before  I  took  sick,  they  knew  the  Mass  perfectlv 
and  one  or  two  rehearsals  this  week  wTtKS 
cho,r  W.11  be  preparation  quite  sufficirt  •*  ' 
Richte  '      ?£•   '■*  "  '-P^-iWe.-   exclaimed 
.*rtS'  he  "°  ""*  *''"*  •'  '^P^We  of  tak- 

ing the  heavy  soprano  solo  parts.     Some  of  Til 
passages  are  extremely  difficult  and  tty  ri^' 
a  -^-vo.ce  for  their  proper  ^ndition^^"'" 

wanting  whe.rproperlrj^::.^'-''^ 


Chapter  III. 


Father  O'Brien  and  Signor  Bottini  were  alone 
in  the  studio.  The  professor  had  just  gone  to 
confession  and  received.  The  morning  was 
bright  and  rosy  and,  outside  of  the  study  widow, 
a  gay  little  robin  was  chirping  its  blithe  and 
cheerful  matin-son^.  The  room  was  filled 
with  the  odor  of  roses  and  carnations,  for,  flow- 
ers were  everywhere  in  evidence.  The  Signor 
loved  them  and  his  pupils  knew  it  and  every 
morning  brought  a  fresh  quota  of  the  choicest 
blossoms  from  the  down-town  conservatories. 
The  little  robin  outside  was  soon  joined  by  his 
mate  and  together  they  now  held  forth  in  love's 
sweet  serenade. 

"Listen  to  the  robins.  Father!"  at  last  broke 
forth  Bottini.  "There  is  a  simplicity  in  their 
song  that  makes  it  all  the  more  beautiful.  They 
carol  forth  the  music  of  hope — 

"And  hope  like  the  rainbow  of  summer. 
Gives  a  promise  of  Lethe  at  last. " 

"Sing  on,  O  birds!     I  love  your  voices.     You 
bring  me  the  joy  and  the  peace  of  a  happy  heart 
and  your  song  teems  with  the  freshness  and 
purity  of  rich  mountain  air." 
(68) 


THE  PROFESaOR'S  SBCRBT.  69 

There  was  a  faint  Up  at  the  door  and  in  walked 
Fehceand.  with  her  there  came  a  Koodly 
amount  of  sunshine.  She  looked  beautiful  as 
she  stood  in  the  doorway-the  crisp  mominR 
air  had  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks. 

"Good  morning,  Father  O'Brien!  You  are 
an  early  caller.  What  do  you  think  of  my  pa- 
tient?" and  Felice  smiled  sweetiy  and  a  ripple  of 
giriish  laughter  burst  from  her  bright,  ruby-red 

"Felice,  you  are  a  capital  nurse,"  replied  the 
pnest,  good  naturedly.  "In  fact,  I  would  not 
hesitate  placing  myself  under  your  care-pro- 
yiding  you  did  the  nursing  and  I  all  the  boss- 
ing. •  Then  he  laughed  a  hearty  laugh  that 
was  contagious,  for  even  Bottini  himself  could 
not  resist. 

"I  suppose,  Signor,  you  were  wondering  what 
had  happened  me,"   Felice  began,    addressing 
Bottini.     "Well,  this  morning  you  were  fas* 
asleep  and  I  glided  out  silently,  with  my   music 
roll,  over  to  mother's.     She  had  not  heard  my 
voice  in  many  weeks  and  I  was  going  to  give 
her  a  concert,  all  to  herself— poor  thingi     I  sang 
the  Jewel  Song  from  Faust,  Gounod's  Ave  Maria 
and  my  solo  parts  in  your  new  Mass  for  the  dead 
Mother  was  simply  delighted  with  my  progresi 
and  you  don't  know  how   her  face  brightened 
when  I  sang.     But,  when  she  spoke  of  Hortense 


10 


.  THR  PROPKSSOK'S  SKCRRT. 


■ 


her  voice  trembled  and  there  was  a  hint  of  Bor- 
row in  it." 

O.'^"'  T'm, *'*""'"  "•**'~'y  »^ke  in  Father 
OBrien.  'will  you  not  sing  a  bit  for  me,  this 
mommg?  I  have  not  heard  you  for  a  year  past  " 
The  good  priest  was  very  sympathetic  and  he 
was  afraid  that  if  the  conversation  were  to  go  on 
thus,  he  could  not  help  but  give  vent  to  his 
fedings.  "Come."  he  added,  "sing  me  Gon- 
nod's  Ave  Maria!" 

Felice  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and  sang  the 
selection  beautifully,  with  all  becoming  dignity 
and  grace  The  priest  listened  eageriy-so  did 
the  noble  Signor  but  alasl  the  latter's  thoughts 
were  elsewhere.  Before  him,  there  loomed  a 
picture  of  Hortense  in  the  old  choir  loft.  He 
hin«elf,  was  at  the  organ;  below,  several  thou- 
sand people  were  listening  eagerly  to  that  self- 
same Ave  Maria,  their  heads  bowed  down  in 
prayer.  Father  O'Brien  was  at  the  alta^-and 
all  this  alasl  seemed  but  yesteniay. 

•'Well  done,  child!"  lovingly  said  the  priest 
•sFehce  rose  and  left  the  piano.  "It  was  a 
capital  and  faultless  rendition  and  I  compli- 
mentyou." 

Signor  Bottini  raised  his  head.    There  was  a 
distant,  far-away  look  in  his  eyes  and  he  seem- 
ed to  have  suddenly  awakened  from  a  dream. 
"Signor!"  asked  the  priest.   "How  long  be- 


r  i 


THR  PROPRSSOR's  SRCRRT. 


71 


here,   takes  her  place  in  the 
«    nigh    perfect   now,   me- 


fore  your  protegee, 
choir?  Her  voice 
thinks." 

•^f«*verylong~_be£ore  very  long."  .n.. 
wered  Botttni.   somewhat  distractedly      ».ij 
ttoTd*",  °'^r^^"  -•'-nged^r^Si  bu?o" 

s:urarTX'^"--"-^— o-p.;; 

The  afternoon  passed  quieUy  and  evenino- 
^me  with  its  dark,  heavy  shadows  and  hou«o! 
peace.  The  cathedral  clock  had  just  struck  "hi 
hour  of  eight,  when  Felice  rose  from  Te  table 
and  approached  the  professor's  couch  and  «S 
S^or.  I  will  now  run  over  to  church  anr«; 
to  confession,  before  the  crowd  comes  M«a 
and  I  will  both  receive  tomoC     it  "  t[ 

OBrien  will  sing  a  Solemn  Re<,„ie„,   Mass  f^ 

"But  stay,  child  stay  for  .few  minutes  long- 

t!^«J        JT'**'""*  *°  *«"  you-^„.ethin. 
to  ask  you  before  you  go.  ••  iuterrupted  Bot^n^ 

Felice  drew  nearer.  Her  face  was  pale  anrf 
shefeltasif  her  heart  had  suddenly  stLS 
Wag.  Signor  Bottini  raised  himiif'^S^ 
on  his  conch.  A  weird  look  stole  into  hi 
blo<^.shot  eyes  and  he  began  nervoSty  "5eli« 
the  time  has  come  and  I  am  going  to  rev^  ^ 
y<m  the  secret  that  lies  hiddej  in  my  h^No 


72 


-TMK  PROFB8SOII  '8  HXCKIT. 


i:r 


ears  have  htud  and  none  shall  hear  but  thine 
Would  to  God  that  I  could  preside  at  the  organ 
to-morrow,  I  would  play  as  I  never  plaved  before, 
for  the  sake  of  Hortenae— fnnocent,  white  dove  I 
I  aee  yon  are  aurpriawl  and  I  may  tell  you 
now  that  I  loved  Hortenae— loved  her  with  all 
the  tenderness  of  my  poor  heart  and  yet  she 
never  knew,  for  I  never  told  her." 

"Loved    Hortenae    my— •ister?"  interrupted 
Felice  almost  wildly.     "Is  it  possible?" 

"Possible?  Yes,  Fplice,"  he  went  on.  "And 
listen— to-morrow  morning,  my  new  Requiem 
Mass  is  to  be  sung  in  dear  old  St  Patrick's  for 
the  first  time.  Herr  Rich^  has  held  rehearsals 
with  the  choir  during  the  week.  I  promised  that 
I  would  supply  the  soloist  for  the  occasion  and, 
Fehce,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  take  your  place 
in  the  choir,  to-morrow  morning,  for  the  first 
time,  to  sing  the  solo  parts  of  my  new  Mass. " 

Felice  drew  back  like  a  startled  dove.  "To 
sing  to-morrow,  when  the  memory  of  Hortenae 
will  be  so  fresh,  within  my  heart?  How  can  I— 
why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  ask,  Felice,  because  I  wrote  that  Requiem 
inhonorofHortenseand  dreamed,  one  day  in 
the  past,  that  it  would  be  sung  on  the  anni- 
versary of  her  death.  I  cannot  go  because  my 
arm  is  paralyied.  Everything  is  ready  and  you, 
alone,  are  capable  of  singing  the  soprano  solo 


THK  PROPKSSORS  SKCIIKT.  73 

W     If  you  say  no.   Felice,   the  new  Ma« 
cannot  go  on.     Will  you  go.  Felice?" 

Fehce  stood  speechless  and  her  eyes  seemed 
tobeg^ing  far  over  the  n,isty  hoSTn  T^hl 
P«J.  She  waited  an  infant  and  the  tears  were 
gathering  ,n  her  eyes.    Then,  determined  1<^ 

"S'thf%-^'';7''''*  '-^  ••"»  -•>«  ~s; 


Craptsr  IV. 


n 


The  pearly  gates  of  the  morning  opened  and 
ushered  in  a  perfect  day.  Signor  Bottini  turned 
nervously  on  his  couch  and  a  look  of  sadness 
came  into  his  eyes.  He  had  been  sitting  up  in 
his  easy  chair  every  afternoon  for  the  past  two 
weeks  and  Dr.  McCabe  reversed  matters  a 
little  now  and  tol^  Felice  that  the  professor 
might  sit  up  in  the  morning  if  he  wished.  This 
came  as  a  blessing  to  the  Signor.  "Put  my 
chair  close  up  to  the  window  this  morning,"  he 
said  to  Felice,  "so  that  I  will  be  able  to  hear  the 
singing  and  the  music.  And,  Felice,  when  you 
go  to  church,  tell  the  sexton  to  open  the  large 
window  in  the  choir  loft  so  that  I  will  be  able  to 
hear  it  all  the  better." 

When  Felice  was  reajdy  to  go,  the  professor 
took  her  hand  in  his  and  said:  "Felice,  my 
child,  now  do  your  best  Remember  that  Hor- 
tense  in  heaven  is  listening." 

The  church  bells  had  ceased  ringing  and  now 
came  the  sounds  of  the  organ — heaving  and 
mighty  as  the  ocean.  Bottini  trembled  and 
looked  at  his  paralyzed  arm.  Then  tears  came 
to  him  and  he  bowed  his  head  and  remained  in 
(74) 


THK  professor's  SECRET. 


76 


this  attitude  for  some  time.      The    Requiem 
Aeternam  and  Kyrie  had  been  sung  and   Signor 
Bottini  had  heard  every  word.     Then  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven  and  his  lips  moved  in  prayer. 
Out   upon  the  air,    again,    came  the  swelling 
notes  of  the  great  organ.     A  noble  chorus  of 
male  voices  reverently  answered  the  chant  of 
Father  O'Brien,  at  the  altar.     Then  there  was 
a  pause  until  the  clear,  diapason   notes  played 
the  beautiful  prelude  to  the  Dies  Irae.  Signor  Bot- 
tini raised  himself  and  listened  eagerly.     Felice 
was  singing  and  the  words  floated  out  upon  the 
wings  of  the  morning,  clear  and  distinct: 
"Dies  Irae,  dies  ilia 
Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla, 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla. 
Quantus  tremor  est  futurus 
Quando  Judex  est  ventt'Tua, 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurusi" 
Low  and  sweet  was  the  air  at  first,  rising  and 
falling  till  the  mighty,  roaring,  voluminous  voice 
filled  every  nook  of  that  imposing  edifice.     There 
were  no  grand-opera  trills  and  triplets,  no  fairy- 
like cadenzas  in  the  selection.     It  was  nothing 
but  a  grand,  simple,   pleading,  touching  air- 
one  that  came  from  the  heart;  one  that  went  di- 
rectly to  the  heart.     A  look  of  satisfaction  crept 
into  the  Signor's  wearied  face  when  Felice  had 
finiahed.     Then  the  full  choir  of  sixty  voices  took 


76 


THK  PROFESSOR'S  SBCRKT. 


if' 


up  the  strain.  It  was  full  of  power  and  majesty 
and  Bottini  could  hardly  sit  it  out.  His  face 
twitched;  he  became  resUess  and  be  moved 
around  nervously  in  his  chair.  He  could  stand 
it  no  longer. 

"I  must  gol  I  must,"  he  gasped,  as  he  rose 
from  his  chair  and  threw  his  heavy  cloak  about 
him.  "I  feel  that  God  is  urging  me  to  go— " 
and  he  opened  the  door  and  made  for  the  stairs. 
He  felt  weak  but  the  thought  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do  seemed  «o  bring  surplus  strength  to 
his  body. 

When  Bottini  reached  the  church  door  he  was 
panting  for  br-ath.  "I  must!  I  must!"  he  still 
gasped,  as  he  entered  the  church  and  made  for 
the  steps  that  led  to  the  gallery.  The  Dies  Irae 
was  still  being  sung,  and  now  came  the  last  few 
sentences,  in  a  faint,  trembling  voice: 
"Pie  Jesu  Domine, 
Dona  eis  requiem  I " 

When  the  Amen  was  sung.  Signer  Bottini 
staggered  into  the  gallery  and  made  for  the  organ. 
His  breath  came  in  interruptions.  He  whispered 
something  to  Herr  Richter,  then  turned  and 
faced  Felice  and  smiled  gently.  In  a  moment 
Bottini  himself  was  at  the  organ,  playing  most 
beautifully— playing  as  he  had  never  played  be- 
fore. His  paralyzed  arm  hung  helpless  at  his 
side— his  right  hand  was  on  the  keyboard.     Herr 


THE  PKOFESSOR'S  SECRET.  77 

Richter  had  charge  of  the  stops.  The  Signer 
looked  strong  and  every  one  in  that  vast  cathe- 
dral s«^med  to  recognize  the  strange  power  that 
swayed  the  keys  and  pedals  of  the  organ.  Now 
he  was  playing  a  delicate,  distant-sounding  aria 
-It  was  so  sweet,  so  clear  and  tender  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  heavens  had  suddenly  opened 
and  an  angel  was  singing  a  song  of  peace  and 
joy  to  the  silent,  praying  multitude  below.  Then 
came  the  voice  of  the  officiating  priest  and  Bottini 
sent  back  answer  from  the  organ. 

The  Sanctus  and  Agnus  Dei  <A  the  new  Mass 
were  beautifully  rendered,  and  then  followed  the 
Ivibera.  This  was,  without  a  doubt,  the  heaviest 
part  of  the  composition,  and  during  its  rendition 
Ssignor  Bottini 's  strength  at  the  organ  gave  way 
Herr  Richter  begged  to  replace  him,  but  the 
Signor  only  shook  his  head,  smiled  gently  and 
then  played  on. 

The  last  notes  of  the  Libera  had  just  died 
away  when  Father  O'Brien  raised  the  censer 
several  times  and  sang: 

"Requiem  aetemam.  dona  ei,  Dominel" 
Signor  Bottini  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  im- 
plonngly  and  played,  as  the  choir  answered: 
"Et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ei." 
His  face  was  of  a  deathly,  ashen  hue  and   on 


78 


'  THB  pkopbssor's  sbckxt. 


hw  forehead  several  large  beads  of  penpiratkm 
were  shining.    Aiyain  the  iwiest chanted: 

"Reqniescat  in  pacel" 

But  the  choir  did  not  sing  the  leaponse.  There 
was  only  a  shrill,  sharp  cry.  It  was  the  cry  of 
a  woman  and  several  men  sprang  forward  just  as 
the  noble  Signer's  head  fell  on  the  organ.  They 
lifted  him  back.  His  wrist  was  pulseless  and, 
on  his  face,  there  was  the  expression  of  a  smile.' 
Within  dear  old  St  Patrick's  all  was  regret  and 
sorrow,  but  within  t^e  soul  of  Signor  Francesco 
Bottini,  heaven's  brightest  sunbeams  of  peace, 
and  happiness  eternal  were  just  then  shining. 


ONE  EASTER  AT  HiOHMORE. 


Chapter  I. 
On  a  cold  October  morning  in  the  early  eight- 
t«.  the  humble  little  rectory  at  Highmore  held 
two  happy  hearts.    The  final,  decisive  words 
that  made  Kenneth  Cameron  and  Cedle  Emery 
man  and  wife  had  just  b:en  spoken,  and  in  the 
ey^  of  good  old  Father  Franci»-God  rest  his 
soul_th«e  lurked  a  look  of  intense  joy.     Often 
in  the  twilight,  he  had  knelt  before  the  altar 
holding  sweet  converse  with  his  God,  askine 
blessings  for  his  children  of  the  parish,   and 
Cecile  s  name  was  never  forgotten.     Often  he 
wondered  whether  she  would  really  many  Cam- 
won.     He  was  rich,   but  what  after  all  were 
nches,  when  the  man  she  loved  possessed  not 
even  the  priceless  pearl  of  faith? 

Kenneth  Cameron  was  a  man  about  thirty-five 
well  preserved  and  quite  good  looking,  and  in 
his  open,  frank  countenance  there  was  a  look  of 
strong  determination.  His  father  had  been  a 
minister  in  a  little  village  surrounded  by  Scottish 
hills,  and  shepherds  who  tended  their  flocks  on 
the  hills  were  his  parishoners.  He  was  a  good 
(78)  ' 


80 


ONB  BASTBR  AT  HIGHMORB. 


honest,  old  soul,  and  when  Kenneth,  his  only 
child,  kissed  him  good-bye  years  ago  and  left 
Scotland  to  made  a  fortune  in  other  lands,  his 
heart  nearly  broke.      Kenneth  came  right  to 
Highmore;  he  was  poor  then,  but  he  had  pluck, 
back-bone  and  endurance;  and  thus.^in  a  few 
years,  he  had  made  and  saved  quite  a  fortune. 
Now,  he  was  the  wealthiest  man  in  the  city,  and 
his  marriage  to  pretty  Cecile  Emery— the  bright- 
est rose  in  all  the  country-side — was  just,  at  this 
moment,  the  general* topic  of  the  hour.     Cecile 
Emery  came  of  good,  sound  Catholic  stock,  was 
quite  accomplished,  and  in  every  way  suited  to 
become  the  wife  of  Highmore's  wealthy  broker. 
"May  God  bless  you  bothi".   Father  Francis 
saic!  thoughtfully,  as  they  were  about  to  leave 
the  rector>-.     "And    remember    your    promise, 
Kenneth  I     You  have  plucked  the  fairest  flower 
in  all  my  parish  and  I  hope  that  bitter  sorrows 
may  never  mar  or  blight  its  beauty — good-bye  1" 
And  he  shook  hands  with  both  of  them  vigorous- 
ly and  closed  the  door.     When  they  were  gone, 
Father  Francis  sank  down  before  a  statue  of  the 
Blessed  I^y  and  prayed  that  the  man,  whom  he 
had  just  made  happy,  might  not  be  lost,  and 
some  day  would  receive  the  gift  of  faith.     Cecile 
was  a  saint  of  earth,  bethought,  and  surely  her 
pure,   Christian    character  would  do  much  to 
this  end.     Words  and  exhortations  had  been  use- 


ONB  EASTER  AT  HIGHMORS.  81 

ieas.  They  had  fallen  on  barren,  hard  rocks. 
Cecile  had  married  the  man  she  loved;  she  was 
happy,  but,  in  all  her  joy,  there  was  the  under- 
tone of  a  regret,  and  she  dreamed  of  the  future 
and  wondered  in  her  soul  if  her  dream  would 
ever  come  true. 

For  days  and  days  Father  Francis'  words  ranir 
in  Kenneth's  ears.  "Remembei  your  promisel" 
the  strange,  mystic  voices  said,  and  he  could 
not  hush  them.  "Perhaps,  in  some  far-off  day 
these  self-same  voices  would  remind  him  of  his 
sacred  pledge.  Let  us  hope  that,  when  they  did 
speak,  he  heard  themi 

Thirteen  years  had   passed.     The   Camerons 
were  still  counted  the  wealthiest  family  in  High- 
more,  and,  to  outward  appearances,  really  de- 
served the  distinction.     Kenneth  had  changed 
little  in  these  years,  and  Clyde,  his  young  son 
now  ten  years  old.  was  the  dead  picture  of  him ' 
Cecile  had  changed  much  in  looks.     One  would 
hardly  have  known  her,  with  htr  trouble,  sad 
face.      The  years  were    weaving    light   silver 
strands  through  her  hair,   and  no  one  in  all 
Highmore  but  herself  knew  the  reason.      Ken- 
neth had  been  a  traitor  to  the  promise  he  had 
made  to  Father  Francis  years  ago,  and  this  was 
the  strange  power  that  made  her  so  unhappy 
The  fires  of  bigotry  that  had  been  burning  in 
Kenneth's  soul,  lit  up  in  all  their  virulence,  one 


Oiin  SASTSft  AT  HXOBMOUI. 


morning  after  breakfast.  The  baby  was  a  montb 
old  and  had  not  yet  been  baptised,  and  CecUe's 
■nfiering,  mother-heart  was  bleeding  with  an* 
guish. 

"Don't  you  think  it  is  time  baby  was  being 
baptized,  Kenneth?"  she  asked,  gladly. 

' '  Baby  baptized?' '  he  interrupted  hotly.  '  'Ce- 
dle,  are  you  going  mad?  Baby  baptized — ^well 
hardlyl  That  boy  will  go  to  his  father's  church, 
so  you  can  put  all  your  little  scrupka  aside, ' '  he 
added,  sarcastically,  i 

The  color  in  Cecile's  cheeks  reddened,  and  for 
the  moment  she  was  stunned.  She  thought  that 
she  had  known  Kenneth,  but  now,  alasl  she 
divined  in  him  another  man.  After  a  few  min- 
utes, she  was  quite  composed  and  said,  in  a 
trembling  vmce.  ' '  But  your  promise ,  Kenneth  I 
Have  you  forgotten  how  you  promised  Father 
Itands  that  if  any  children  should  be  bom  to 
us,  they  were  to  be  baptized  and  raised  Catho- 
lics. Have  you  forgotten  so  soon?  It  pains  me 
deeply." 

"Promiacsconnt  for  nothing,"  he  stammered 
forth  scornfully.  "I  never  for  one  moment,  in- 
tended to  do  it,  anyway — and,  pshawl  the  priest 
is  dead." 

"The  priest  is  dead,  'tis  true,  and  more's  the 
jnty,"  added  Cecile  sadly.  "But,  Kenneth, 
there  were  other  ears  than  his  that  heard  the 


ONK  BASTSR  AT  HIOHlfOM.  88 

promise.    There  is  a  God  in  heaven   and  H. 

-l«r^  "«»  '  •»  «l*d  that  the;:!  ^,t 
remembers  your  words  still.  •  •  •«  wno 

"Enough  of  this  nonsense— this  oW  «,-,» 
talk  I"  ■hnnii.j  r>  =s"ac    uis  oia-woman 

look  «»  H  ^*^*"°  ""*"''•  •»«'  tJ'««was  a 

look  of  deep  scorn  in  his  eyes.  "My  child  will 
never-never.  I  «.y_be  baptized  by  a  priesT" 
-ndlje  stormed  out  of  the  room  in  7gr^S  'of 

neS'r"?^!!'  """^  *^'*  '*'"*^'  decile  had 
never   again,    except  on    a    few.    thoughtless 

occ«.ons.  mentioned  baptism  or  knythbgpT 
Jimng  to  Clyde's  condition,  and.  wh«  she  C 

2^  w«i'  5i'j"  "  ^"  ^"^  ^"1«»  break.  b« 
rte  was  afraid,  and  sealed  her  lipa  for  Z 
Mke  of  her  child-for  peace    afJr  on 

»ciaimed  Mother,  poor  Tim  Flannagan  next 
door  has  just  died      I  w,.  „  ,,,  beds-^;;^ 

HWe.  pale  fingen,.  and  ih.a  kissed  me  good-bye 

aep^«t  from  the  Catl.elr,i  prav.d  ^tU  poor 
IW  aU  mommg^Poor  VimI  how  .  will  S 
h.ml  He  was  about  the  only  boy  I  ever  kuew 

;^  T,f~i"  Clydeco«lc„ot.p.akaS 
word,  for  the  deathbed  scene  he  hs^  jn^w^ 


84 


dint  XAWBS  AT  HIOHMOBS. 


neaaed,  had  made  him  think  of  too  many  thing* 
and  he  bunt  into  tears,  and  the  kindly  ring  of 
his  mother's  voice  conld  not  assuage  the  pain  of 
his  little,  wounded  heart 

After  some  time  Clyde's  little  tain  of  tears  was 
over,  but  the  feelings  of  deep  sorrow  still  pene- 
trated his  soul,  for  he  realized  that  he  had  lost 
the  first  little  friend  of  his  heart's  kingdom,  and 
that  for  years  to  come  there  would  be  an  empty 
place  nothing  could  fill. 


M 


■\    I: 


II: 


Chaptkr  II. 
On  the  evening  before  Tim',  funeral,  the  Cam- 

when  Mr.  Cameron  suddenly  ro«e.  after  consult- 
ing hw  watch,  and  exclaimed:  "By  jove.  Cecilel 
lalmost  forgot  It  is  past  seven,  and  I  should 
have  been  at  the  office  long  ago.  fixing  np  my 
monthly  stotement. "  ^    f     f 

"Since  you  will  be  away  then  for  some  time  " 
interposed  Mrs.  Came.on.  "Clyde  and  I  will 
tt*e  «  mn  over  to  Flannagan's.  Clyde  so 
wishes  to  see  poor  little  Tim  before  he  is  taken 

have  liked  to  have  taken  Clyde  to  church  with 
her  in  the  morning,  but  she  was  afraid  lest  her 
husband  might  enact  another  scene  in    their 
household  drama.     The  very  mention    of    it 
would  bring  forth  suchavolley  of  abusive,  sarcas- 
tic words  that  Cecile  once  more  smothered  those 
teelings  that  her  honest  heart  had  known  so  well. 
When  Clyde  and  his  mother  returned  from 
the  Hannagan-s,  neither  spoke.     Their  heart, 
were  too  full  for  utterance.     Clyde  was  .sitting 
ma  rocker  before  the  fire  place,   running  his 
fingers  carelessly  through  an  open  book,   while 
(86) 


*»'«oeorr  msouition  tbt  outr 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  T^ST  CHAKT  No.  2) 


I 


1.0    gia 

II        5  ■** 


12. 

12.0 

1.8 


!:25  iu 


■HI 

I 


A 


1853  Eost  Mom  StrMt 

»0<*ftl«r.  Nm  Yorti        14W9      USA 

('!»)  »«2  -  0300  -  Ption. 

(716)  2se  -  S9»  -  Fen 


86 


ONB  EASTER  AT  BIGHMORB. 


his  mother's  lips  moved  silently  and  her  fingers 
counted  pearly  beads  that  lay  hid  in  the  hiuid> 
kerchief  on  her  lap. 

Presently  Clyde  broke  out  tenderly :  ' '  Mother, 
why  won't  you  let  me  go  to  the  Sisters'  school, 
so  that  when  I  am  sick  they  will  come  to  me 
and  pray  for  me,  like  they  ilid  at  Tim's  sick  bed? 
I  am  not  like  other  boys  at  all,  and  I  just  hate 
my  old  tutor.  He  never  mentions  God's  name 
to  me  and  it  all  seems  so  strange,  and  now  I  am 
nearly  eleven  years  old — and,  ohi  how  I  do  wish 
I  could  say  half  the  prayers  that  those  children 
do.  And,  mother,  I  would  like  to  go  to  your 
chtu-ch  on  Sundays  and  do  just  what  you  do  and 
learn  to  pray  to  Mary,  like  Tim  used  to  do. 
Bven  if  father  does  get  ingry,  I  don't  care — I 
want  to  be  just  like  Tim 

".'here  was  a  momentary  pause.  "Never  mind 
my  boy,  my  prayer,  I  am  sure  will  some  day  be 
answered."  she  said,  "and  then  everything  will 
be  all  right." 

"But  I  want  to  learn  how  to  pray,  now,"  he 
interrupted.  "That  some  day  may  be  too  late 
for  me,  mother.  I  want  to  be  one  of  Mary's 
children,  like  Tim,  and  when  I  know  how  to 
pray,  I  will  have  much  to  ask  for." 

The  clock  struck  eleven.  "Come,  Clyde"  Mrs. 
Cameron  said,  sweetly,  "it  is  time  you  were  in 
bed."     When  the  child  was  ready  to  retire,   he 


ONB  BASTBK  AT  HIGHMORB. 


87 


came  to  his  mother,  climbed  on  her  knees,  and 
whispered  into  herears:  "The  prayers,  mothcrl 
teach  me  your  "Our  Father,"  and  that  "Hail, 
Mary,"  to-nightl  I  am  sure  poor  Tim  needs  a 
prayer.     Let  my  first  one  be  for  him. ' ' 

Mrs.  Cameron  kissed  the  little  red  lips  and 
then  went  to  the  boy's  room  closed  the  door 
gently  and  said  in  a  trembling  voice:  "Re- 
member, Clyde!  that  your  father  hears  nothing 
of  this.     Come,  let  us  kneel  down  together. ' ' 

The  moonbeams  stole  through  the  fine  lace 
curtains  and  threw  their  light  upon  Clyde's 
golden,  curly  hair,  as  he  blessed  himself  and 
repeated,  word  after  word,  the  "Our  Father." 

Just  then  the  front  door  opened  and  in  walked 

Mr.  Cameron.     The  house  was  unusually  quiet, 

and  thinking  Cecile  and  Clyde  were  fast  asleep,' 

he  took  off  his  overcoat  and  tip-toed  into  the 

drawing  room,  so  as  not  to  disturb  their  slumb- 
ers. 

That  very  moment  the  voice  of  a  child  came 
ringing  across  the  hallway— it  was  sweet  and 
tender,  just  likethi  first  song  of  a  young  bird  in 
spring— and  the  words  stole  into  the  drawing 
room,  reverently  and  distinctly:  "And  lead  us 
not— into  temptation— but  deliver  us  from  evil 
— amen.     There  was  only  a  momentary  silence 


,V 


88 


ONE  EASTKK  AT  HIGHMORE. 


— a  slight  pause  and  the  two  began  again :  ' '  Hail , 
Mary,  full  of  grace— " 

Kenneth  Cameron  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
a  dark  shadow  crept  into  his  pale  face;  his  teeth 
were  set  and  there  was  a  wild  look  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
tip- toed  across  the  hall  and  then  stood  at  the  door 
of  Clyde's  room.  It  was  partly  closed,  and  there, 
in  the  comer,  he  saw  all.  There  was  Clyde  in- 
his  white  robe,  and  beside  him  knelt  Cecile, 
and  his  boy  was  being  taught  how  to  chatter 
"papist"  prayers.  Was  it  possible?  The  fires 
of  a  fierce  hatred  were  consuming  Cameron's 
soul.  His  muscles  twitched;  he  could  hardly 
stand  it  out.  Out  upon  the  silence  again  came 
the  voice  of  the  child, — "Holy  Mary — Mother 
of  God — pray  for  us  sinners — "  The  excited 
man  bit  his  lips  in  anger.  "Oh,  I  cannot 
stand  it,"  he  thought,  "the  idea  of  teaching  my 
boy  to  pray  to  a  woman!  I  will  yet  bend  Cecile 's 
haughty  will  and  she  will  yet  have  to  cower 
down  in  the  dust  at  my  feet  and  beg  my  pardon. ' ' 
A  thousand  thoughts  flashed  through  his  mind. 
Now  came  the  sweet  voices  of  mother  and  child. 
They  were  making  the  sign  of  the  cross — "In 
the  name  of  the  Father — and  of  the  Son — ' '  Ken- 
neth Cameron  thought  of  his  promise  to  poor 
Father  Francis,  thirteen  years  ago,  and  again 
he  brushed  it  away  carelessly.  The  battle  was 
on.     It  had  reached  the  climax.      He  could 


ONH  KASTEK  AT  HIGHMORE. 


89 


not  Stay  the  wild  impulses  of  his  haughty  nature 
—his  face  was  the  picture  of  a  madman's,  and 
in  he  darted,  into  the  very  room  where  mother 
and  child  were  kneeling,  and  roughly  snatched 
the  little  one  from  the  floor,  amid  a  cry  of  curses 
that  would  have  put  to  shame  even  Lucifer  him- 
self. 

"Cecile  Emery."  he  groaned,  "let  this  night 
put  an  end  to  all  your  foolish  fanciesi  That  boy 
will  never  be  a  Catholic  and  mumble  monoton- 
ous  prayers  and  bend  his  knee  to  the  priest,  and 
if  yoa  persist  in  making  my  life  uncomfortable 
I  will  tear  your  heart  in  two.  You  do  not  de- 
serve my  love  and  you  are  degraded  in  my  eyes 
for  having  planned  and  schemed  and  plotted 
against  me  and  my  child  when  my  back  -is 
turned.  By  heaven,  I  swear!  you  shall  yei  ,uf. 
fer  for  this!"  Clyde  stood  transfixed— a  wit- 
ness to  another  act  of  high  society  drama— and 
in  his  eyes  the  tears  gathered  fast. 

Mrs.  Cameron  knelt  at  the  bedside.  Her  eyes 
were  dry,  and  her  hands  held  fast  her  throbbine 
temples. 

"Cecile,"  he  shrieked,  "do  you  hear  me  with 
your  mumbling  witchery  of  prayer?  Remem- 
ber, this  night  ends  your  trickery  with  that 
child!"  and*'  stormed  out  of  their  sight  and 
paced  the  hi        .th  the  fury  of  a  caged  lion. 

When  he  was  gone,  Clyde  stole  over  to  his 


■f .  . 


1 4. 


90 


UNK  KASTUK  AT  HIGHMORR. 


mother's  side,  put  his  trembling,  childish  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  planted  a  kiss  on  her  fev- 
erish cheeks.  Then  in  the  moonlight,  he  knelt 
down  again  beside  her  and,  I  really  believe,  bis 
lips  moved  in  prayer. 


Chapter  III. 

Two  months  had  passed  and  the  Cameron 
house  was  bright  and  cheerful  as  ever.  Ken- 
neth seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  the  fatal 
night,  and  Cecile  tried  very  hard  to  forget. 
Every  day  she  made  a  visit  to  St.  Peter's  and 
God  only  knows  what  her  thoughts  were. 

One  day,  eariy  in  February,  when  steel-gray 
skies  were  dull  and  cheerless,  Cecile  stood  at  her 
window,  gazing  down  the  long,  empty,  desolate 
street.  It  had  just  begun  snowing  a  little  and 
the  streets  were  very  slippery.  She  had  sent 
Clyde  T.ith  a  message  to  the  grocer's,  and  he 
had  not  returned,  though  he  had  been  gone  a 
full  hour.  Just  then,  the  ambulance  swept 
around  the  corner,  and  for  an  instant  a  mighty 
fear  swayed  her  inmost  feelings.  The  ambulance 
halted  before  her  very  doors.  She  felt  dizzy; 
everything  was  moving  around  her  and  she 
came  near  falling  to  the  floor,  but  she  held  fast 
to  a  chair  standing  near  by.  She  stared  through 
the  window  almost  wildly;  she  saw  her  husband, 
and  then  came  the  ambulance  surgeons  carrying 
an  almost  lifeless,  pale  body  on  a  stretcher.  The 
door  opened,  she  stared  at  the  men;  she  could 
(91) 


\    i 


it 
if 


92 


ONK  KASTKK  AT  Hir.HMORK. 


not  Speak;  she  stared  at  the  being  on  the  stretch- 
er— it  was  tlie  body  of  a  child.  She  threw  her 
hands  into  the  air  and  shrieked.  "My  God!  it 
is  Clyde — "she  moaned,  as  .she  sank  into  Ken- 
neth's strong  arms. 

Another  of  the  many  accidents  that  take  place 
in  our  large  cities  had  occurred,  and  again,  as 
usual,  the  unhappy  victim  was  a  poor,  little,  un- 
suspecting child.  Clyde,  on  his  way  home, 
tried  to  hurry  over  the  King  street  crossing  just 
as  a  west-bound  car  wks  coming  up  a  number  of 
yards  behind  him.  The  streets  had  just  frozen 
hard  after  a  thaw,  and  the  poor  lad  slipped  and 
fell  with  the  back  of  his  head  upon  one  of  the 
iron  rails.  It  was  an  awful  fall;  the  child  was 
dazed  and  uttered  a  sickly  cry.  A  policeman 
saw  the  child  falling  and  made  for  the  crossing. 
The  motorman  also  saw  the  boy  lying  there, 
and  tried  to  stop  the  car;  it  was  going  at  a  slow 
speed,  thank  God!  Clyde's  body  would  have 
been  crushed  under  the  wheels  had  not  the 
policeman's  strong  arms  just  then  been  active. 
The  child  was  in  a  state  of  collapse,  and  restor- 
atives were  administered,  until  the  ambulance 
arrived  that  was  to  convey  the  little  sufferer  to 
his  home. 

All  next  day  Clyde  lay  in  his  little  cot,  to  all 
appearances  dead.  His  breathing  was  shallow; 
his  little  pulse  almost  imperceptible.     Not  a  word 


ONK  KASTKK  AT  HIGHMOKE. 


93 


had  yet  passed  his  lips,  and  he  seemed  to  be  in  a 
continual  stupor.  Dr.  Von  Hartmann  the  emi- 
nent  specialist,  had  been  called  into  the  Cameron 
house,  several  days  after,  by  the  family  physi- 
cian, and  upon  examining  the  child,  the  famous 
German  professor  at  once  said:  "My  dear  people, 
I  am  very  sorry,  the  child  will  die;  its  chances  to 
live  are  very  meagre.  The  symptoms  at  first 
were  those  of  concussion  of  the  brain,  but  during 
the  last  twenty  four  hours  meningitis  has  set  in, 
and  this  makes  the  prognosis  so  unfavorable.  I 
have  seen  quite  a  few  traumatic  cases  and,  out  of 
their  number,  only  two  recovered." 

Mrs.  Cameron  was  almost  wild;  the  excite- 
ment had  been  too  much  for  her.  If  Clyde 
would  only  speak  how  much  better  she  would 
feel,  and  then  to  think  that  her  only  child  had 
to  die — and  to  die  unbaptized.  O  horrible 
thoughtl  The  agony  of  it  sickened  her  deeply, 
but  she  bore  up  bravely  and  found  a  consolation 
in  prayer.  Three  weeks  had  passed  and  Clyde's 
condition  had  not  changed  much,  although  Dr. 
/on  Hartmann  seemed  more  hopeful.  She  how- 
ever, resolved  to  make  a  novena  to  the  Mother 
of  God,  and  one  morning  she  placed  a  little, 
white,  marble  statue  of  the  Virgin  at  Clyde's  bed- 
side. Before  this,  a  candle  was  to  burn  all  day 
and  night.  She  cared  not  what  Kenneth  would 
say,  but  she  expected  a  few  words  of  reproach 


M 


ONR  KASTKK  AT  HItiHMORB. 


\  i 


from  him  that  afternoon.  But  strange  to 
say,  he  saw  the  statue  and  burning  candle  and 
not  a  word  passed  his  lips,  and  Cecile  was  glad, 
for  she  felt  that  his  cold,  icy  heart  was  begin- 
ning to  thaw.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  the  sick  child 
had  put  a  check  on  his  tongue,  so  as  not  to 
desecrate  the  serenity  of  the  sick  chamber. 

One  evening,  shortly  after  the  lights  were 
turned  low,  Mr  and  Mrs.  Cameron  watched  at 
the  bed  of  their  sick  child.  Clyde  moved  around 
nervously  on  his  pillowi,  his  soft  blue  eyes  opened , 
and  for  a  moment  he  gazed  into  the  two  tear- 
stained  faces  over  him;  then  his  lips  moved,  for 
the  first  time  since  the  accident,  and  he  whisp- 
ered: 

"Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace—."  Again,  he 
raised  his  fingers  to  his  forehead,  as  if  to  bless 
himself,  and  a  stupid,  faraway  look  came  to  his 
face,  and  his  hand  fell  down  helpless  at  his  side. 
Cecile  wept  bitterly,  and  upon  Kenneth's 
troubled  face  there  was  a  look,  as  if  a  storm  wer« 
brewing  within  his  soul. 

The  days  wore  on,  and  dark,  cheerless  days 
they  were,  but  they  were  getting  somewhat 
brighter.  Clyde  seemed  more  himself;  he  was 
less  drowsy  and  tried  to  speak  with  great  fervoi , 
but  then,  almost  as  suddenly,  his  mind  would 
become  a  blank.  Yet,  all  in  all,  the  doctors  were 
well  pleased  with  his  condition. .    Day  by  day  his 


ONK  BASTRR  AT  HlQHMORB. 


95 


power  of  speech  grew  stronger,    and  he  would 
converse  quite  freely  with   thobe  around  him 
Notone  moment  washe  free  from  pain,  and,  when 
his  temperature  ran  up  and  wild,  fever  tempests 
consumed  his  energy,  then  he  would  sink  into 
a  low,  muttering  delirium,  and  often,  very  often 
raise  his  fingers  to  his  forehead,  and  there  thev 
remained  until  tired  and  exhausted  he  fell  asleep. 
One  afternoon,  when  he  awoke  out  of  a  re- 
freshing sleep,  he  motioned  his  lather  to  his  bed- 
side, and  said,  in  a  slow,  weak  voice:     'Father, 
I  am  not  going  to  get  better,  and  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  one  favor  before  I  die.     It  is  the  last  I 
wiU  ever  ask  of  you,"  and  he  halted  asif  tocatch 
his  breath. 

"Go  on,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Cameron. 
"I  would  like  to  have  Father  Doyle  come  to 
see  me,"  the  child  continued,  "so  that  he  could 
speak  to  me  the  way  he  spoke  to  poor  Tim  one 
afternoon  when  I  was  there.  He  Hos  such  a 
warm  heart,  and  he  will  make  me  very  happy. 
Will  you  go  for  him.  Father?" 

"Yes,  my  child,  I  will  have  him  come"  he 
answered. 

"I  wish,  father,  that  you  yTurself  would  go 
for  him,  '  Clyde  interrupted. 

Kenneth  Cameron's  eyes  opened  widely:  he 
waited  an  instant,  then  he  said  nervously,  "I 
wUl,  my  boy  I"     Cecile  overheard  the  convetsa- 


96 


ONK  KASTKK  AT  HIUHMURR. 


tton,  and  in  her  soul  a  fresh,  new  light  was  juat 
then  shining. 

Good  old  Father  Doyle— be  of  the  gentle  face 
and  snow-white  hair — eamt  daily  to  »ee  Clyde, 
and  stayed  long  hours  to  speak  and  read  to  him. 
After  one  of  these  visits,  Clyde  said  to  his  father; 
"I  don't  know,  but  every  time  I  see  Father 
Doyle  coming  in  the  doorway,  my  heart  gives  a 
jump,  and  all  the  pains  iu  my  back  leave  me 
just  as  rapidly  as  they  came.  His  kin^  voice 
and  his  gentle  smile  do  more  for  me  than  Doctor 
Von  Hartma  in  does  with  electricity  and  drugs. 
And,  oh,  fataer,  I  am  so  hap^jy,  for  I  am  get- 
ting to  be  more  like  Tim  Flannagan  every  day" 
— and  he  smiled  gently.  It  was  the  first  smile 
Mrs.  Cameron  had  seen  on  Clyde's  face  all  dur- 
ing his  illness,  and  that  smile  lit  up  theaarkness 
and  the  gloom  of  all  her  succeeding  days. 

A  great  change  was  also  coming  over  Kenneth. 
He  had  taken  o£f  the  mask  of  his  other  self,  and 
in  Cecile's  eyes  was  again  the  upright,  manly 
heart  and  ardent  lover  of  those  early  years.  One 
day  the  little  tallow  candle  on  the  table  in  front 
of  the  Virgin's  statue  went  out,  and  to  Cecile's 
great  surprise,  Kenneth  himself  lit  it.  And  with 
that  same  match  the  Virgin,  herself,  lit  the  fires 
of  faith  and  understanding  that  were  smoulder- 
ing in  his  soul,  while  the  embers  of  his  former' 
vague,  religious  persuasions  were  turning  cold  in 
death. 


Chahtkr  IV. 


It  wanted  but  two  weeks  of  Easter.  aiiU  High- 
more,  with  its  rich  avenues  of  spruce  trees.  wa.s 
Ijeginning  to  look  its  prettiest.     The  lawns  were 
changing  to  green  in  the  sunlit  .;,  the  birds  were 
returning  in  flocks,  and  flowers  wea  ever>-where 
beginning  to  push  their  heads  throu,-h  the  wet 
earth.     April's  coming  had  been  vcy  welcome 
and  still   he  lingered,   breathing  fresh  lifr  into 
valley  and  meadow,  and,  from  his  golden  c'     ice 
wreathed  with  the  buds  and  blossoms  of  sprinjr' 
he  poured  forth  fresh,  cooling  showers.     It  was 
a  grand  awakening,   and  it  spoke  to   Kenneth 
Cameron's  .soul  more  deeply  and   more  clearly 
than  words  or  actions  had  ever  done.     He,  too 
felt  an  awakening,  but  it  was  an  awakening  of 
the  soul— an  awakening,  profound  and  majestic 
He  was  beginning  to  think  of  eternal  .springs  and 
eternal  sunshines,  and  he  stood  at  the  gates  of 
the  dreaded  Dawn,  no  longer  the  doubter  and 
scoffer,  but  the  believer,  ready  to  pass  out  into 
the  perfect  day  of  prophetic  faith— a  day  filial 
with  joy  and  love  and  peace. 

Mrs.  Cameron  was  also  breathing  ea.sier,  for 
Dr.  Von  Hartniann  had  expressed  every  hope  of 
(97) 


>    : 


98 


ONK  KASYKK  AT  HIGHMOKK. 


!  ■  S 


i  i      ;    i       i 


Clyde's  recovery.  The  pains  had  left  his  back, 
the  temperature  was  down  to  normal,  his  mental 
faculties  were  perfectly  restored,  and  the  only 
remnant  of  the  old  disease  was  a  slight  head- 
ache, that  he  experienced  at  times.  But  the 
jKMjr  child  was  only  a  shadow  of  his  former  self, 
yet  mother  and  father  were  both  over  joyed  to 
know  that  God  had  spared  their  little  one.  Clyde 
grew  stronger  daily  and  vvas  now  sitting  up  in 
bed,  and,  when  Dr.  Von  Hartmann  promised  the 
lad  a  drive  with  his  ^father  on  Easter  Sunday, 
the  acme  of  childish  happiness  was    reached. 

One  evening  just  as  Mr.  Cameron  was  going 
out  the  front  door,  his  wife  called  him  back: 
"Kenneth,  are  you  going  out  again?  My!  we 
haven't  had  you  home  with  us  one  evening  since 
the  middle  of  March,  and  this  seems  so  strange, 
for  you  never  went  out  much  before.  Kenneth, 
I  am  beginning  to  have  strange  misgivings." 
"Calm  yourself,  Cecile ! "  he  answered  smiling- 
ly. "You  see  I  am  so  busy,  and  I  have  come 
home  so  often  during  the  day  since  Clyde's  ill- 
ness, that  my  work  is  never  finished.  I  am,  just 
now,  balancing  accounts  and  soon,  my  dear,  I 
will  be  able  to  hand  you  the  receipts."  "To 
hand  me  the  receipts,"  Cecile  thought.  "What 
did  he  mean?  Had  he  been  in  financial  straits 
that  she  knew  nothing  of?" 

Cameron,  in  parting,  only  smiled,  and  I  won- 


ONE  EASTEK  AT  HK.HMORE.  99 

tblthL^l  t      expenenced  spiritual  difficulties^ 

sett  inl  K  T""*'''"^  °^'  »"d  J'e  thought  of 
settling  a  debt,  which  he  owed  her.  It  all  «.ml 
about  in  this  way:  '^'"^ 

wJ?"outt"t'''r*"f  ""'y'"  March  Kenneth 

was  out  for  a  walk.     A  soft  breeze  came  sween 

ng  up  f^om  the  lake;  it  was  so  cool  and  S-' 

mg      The  streets  were  crowded  with  churchgoers 

steps  in  the  direction  of  St.   Peters      P«, 

doubtful   whether  or  not  he  should  enter  th. 
•sacred  edifice.     He  had  just  turned  his  btk  ^ 

you       saM'  Sr"°°; ''  "  '^"^'"^'^  I  »«  tosee 
"Now  2.  "^^  '''"'*''   Pother,    gently 

Tsto   peak   a'n^r^-     ''''  '^^"'^'^  ^^^^^^ishop 
IS  to  speak,  and  there  is  a  feast  in  store  for  the 

-ngregation."     The  chimes  ceased  ringing  and 
the^rreat  organ  pealed  forth  volumes  o?2u„7 

in  front  of  the  pulpit.  '^ 

"Divine   Providence  againj"    whispered  the 


.:    I 


100 


ONB  EASTER  AT  HIGHMORB. 


priest  to  himself,  as  he  entered  the  sanctuary. 

That  very  evening  Father  Doyle  had  a  caller 
at  the  rectory.  It  was  Mr.  Cameron.  The  Arch- 
bishop'ssermon  on  Faith  had  set  his  brain  think- 
ing, and  every  truth  in  the  eloquent  discourse 
had  taken  deep  root  in  Kenneth's  soul.  What 
passed  between  the  two  men  that  night  only  they 
themselves  knew.  But  for  evenings  after  you 
could  see  a  dim  light  in  Father  Doyle's  study  at 
a  certain  hour,  and  the  venerable  old  man,  cate- 
chism in  hand,  instructing  Highmore's  wealthy 
broker.  And  now  we  can  g^ess  where  Kenneth 
spent  so  many  of  his  evenings. 

Easter  dawned,  bright  and  rosy,  with  the  ring- 
ing of  bells  over  the  roof-tops  of  the  city.  The 
heart  of  the  morning  beat  joyous  and  free,  and 
Clyde  could  hardly  wait  for  his  mother's  return 
from  early  mass,  for  this  was  to  be  the  day  of 
his  drive. 

"Won't  you  have  breakfast  before  going  out 
driving,  Kenneth?' '  asked  Cecile  lovingly.  Ken- 
neth shook  his  head  and  answered  somewhat 
strangely:  "Thank  you,  Cecile!  I  little  feel 
like  eating  anything  just  now.  After  the  drive, 
a  morsel  will  taste  all  the  better,  my  dear,"  and 
he  laughed  a  bright,  cherry  laugh,  that  sent  a 
thrill  of  joy  through  Cecile's  heart. 

When  father  and  son  were  comfortably  seated 
in  the  coupe  and  speeding  down  Central  avenue, 


ONH  KASTER  AT  HIGHMnKK.  IQl 

Mr.  Cameron  turned  to  Clyde.     There  was  a  look 
of  almost  superhuman  joy  in  his  face,  and  he 
ask  1,  in  a  trembling  tone  of  voice-      "Clyde 
you     ave  seen  so  much  of  Father  Doyle-would 
you  .  .ally  like  to  become  a  Catholic?" 

"With  all  my  heart,  father,"  cametheanswer 
in  a  fine,  soft,  childish  voice.  "I  oftenthonghl 
of  It,  but  I  dared  not  ask  you." 

thJ?u  """^..T^  """  "°^'  ^^y^'''"  proceeded 
the  father.  I  have  kept  a  little  surprise  from  you 
and  your  mother.  Last  night  I  went  to  confLs- 
lon  to  good,  old  Father  Doyle,  and  this  morning 
I  am  to  be  baptized  and  receive  Communion  in 
the  rectory  chapel.  And  now,  Clyde,  you  see 
why  I  could  not  take  bre«kfa.st  this  morning;  it 
would  have  broken  my  fast.  .  Little  your  mother 
dreams  of  the  surprise  that  this  Easter  will  brine 
her  —and  he  laughed  gladly. 

Clyde  opened  his  large,  blue  eyes;  he  was  al- 
m«tdumb.  He  could  hardly  believe  his  father's 
words.  "Oh,  father!"  he  at  last  broke  forth 
amidst  a  flow  of  tears,  "I  am  .so  happy.  Can't 
r  also  be  baptized  with  you?  Do  speak  to  Father 
Doyle.     I  am  sure  he  won 't  refuse  me. ' ' 

They  had  to  wait  at  the  rectory  some  minutes 
The    housekeeper  had  told   them  that  Father 
Doyle  had  just  gone  to  the  Cathedral  for  hosts 
as  the  Archbishop  was  going  to  say  his  mass  in 
his  pnvate  chapel  in  the  rectory. 


■t  :' 


■  t!J 


102 


ONK  KASTKR  AT  Hir.HMORK. 


Fifteen  minutes  later,  both  father  and  son  had 
been  baptized  and  received  into  the  Church. 
The  Archbishop,  himself,  kindly  performed  the 
ceremony,  and,  trembling  old  man  that  he  was, 
he  seemed  still  very  active  and  strong  for  his 
years,  as  he  mounted,  with  heavy  step,  the  altar, 
to  administer  the  first  Holy  Communion  to  Ken- 
neth Cameron,  while  Clyde  in  his  heart,  thanked 
God  that  his  first  sweet  prayer  to  Mary  had  been 
answered.  Father  Doyle  was  sponsor  to  both 
baptisms.  After  mass,  the  Archbishop  blessed 
both  father  and  son  where  they  were  kneeling, 
and  went  to  the  Cathedral  to  preach  the  Easter 
sermon.  Mr.  Cameron  and  Clyde  occupied  front 
pews,  and  as  the  venerable  Archbishop  spoke, 
large,  heavy  tears  rolled  down  Kenneth's  cheeks. 
He  thought  of  the  Archbishop's  former  sermon 
on  Faith,  and  thanked  God  inwardly,  for  hav- 
ing directed  his  footsteps  to  old  St.  Peter's  on 
that  memorable  Sunday  evening. 

When  the  coupe  again  stopped  in  front  of  the 
Cameron  residence,  the  Archbishop  was  the  first 
to  alight,  and  he  remarked  thoughtfully.  "You 
should  have  told  your  wife  of  this,  Mr.  Cameron. 
I  dare  say,  she  little  suspects  what  has  happened, 
but,  after  all,  it  will  be  a  pleasant  surprise  foi 
her,  and  a  moment  of  happiness,  the  like  of 
which  she  will  not  experience  ag^n." 

"A  i"oment  of  happiness,  your  Grace"  added 


l'«  ' 


ONK  KASTKH  AT  HIGIIMORK. 


luy 


Father  Doyle,  as  he  stepped  to  the  pavement, 
"into  which  can  be  crowded  all  life's  years  of 
sorrow. ' '  Just  then  Kenneth  Cameron's  eyes  lit 
up  with  a  smile.  He  had  seen  Ceciles  face 
through  the  lace  curtains  and  his  heart  gave  a 
wild  thrill  of  joy. 

The  Archbishop  himself  took  Clyde  in  his  arms 
and  lifted  him  from  the  carriage,  and  together 
they  walked  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Cameron's 
eyes  sparkled  as  she  knelt  to  kiss  the  Archbishop's 
ring.  He  had  been  a  dear  friend  to  the  Emery's 
in  the  days  gone  by,  and,  as  he  stooped  to  bless 
Michael  Emery's  only  chilt" ,  hissaintly  old  heart 
felt  a  pain  that  was  akin  to  sorrow.  "May  all 
your  days  be  filled  with  sunshine,"  he  said, 
"and  may  God  bless  you  and  vouts!"  Just  then 
a  thought  pierced  Cecile's  soul.  She  thought  oi 
Kenneth  and  wondered  in  her  heart  if  her  prayer 
would  ever  be  answered.  She  raised  hereell 
from  her  knees  and  smiled  to  Father  Doyle,  as 
she  clasped  hands.  Then  turning  to  Kenneth  and 
Clyde,  she  noticed  a  strange  look  in  both  their 
eyes,  which  spoke  of  a  secret  something  she 
dreaiued  not  of. 

Kenneth  rose  to  the  situation  and  laid  bare  the 
secret,  that  up  to  now  had  bwai  hidden  in  his 
heart.  "Cecile,"  heexclaimed,  with  much  feel- 
ing, "the  accounts  are  balanced— the  debt  is 
paid.      Here  are  the  receipts,"  and  he  handed 


'"i 


104 


ONB  BASTBR  AT  RIGHMORB. 


her  two  souvenir  documents.  They  bore  the 
particulars  and  date  of  her  husband's  and  son's 
baptism  and  entrance  into  the  Church. 

Cecile  trembled  and  held  the  documents  to  her 
gaze.  The  tears  were  gathering  in  her  soft  eye- 
lids. The  surprise  had  totally  upset  her.  "Oh, 
Godl"shecried"IthankTheel"  Andshekissed 
Kenneth  and  Clyde  just  where  they  were  stand- 
ing. 


i  I. 


SHADOW  AND  SUNSHINE. 


An  hour  ago,  I  walked  through   the  Halls  of 
Misery.     About  me  were  seas  of  pale,  sick   faces 
—some  bearing  a  hopeful  look,   some   down- 
cast  and  despairing,  others,  again,  contracted  by 
the  ravages  of  pain.     The  little  hospital  clock 
in  the  far  comer  ticked  away  the  minntes  that 
weighed  like  lead  upon  some  poor,  tired  souls, 
and  all  the  air  was  heavy  with   rose- perfume. 
The  long,  white  ward  was  silent,  save  for  an  oc- 
casional weak   moan  that  came  from   the  bed, 
near  the  last  window,  where  a  little  light  flickered 
peacehilly.     With  aching  heart,    I  drew   near. 
Poor,  degraded  mani    How  my  heart  went  out 
to  him  as  he  lay  there,  almost  battered  beyond 
recognition— another    unhappy    victim  of  the 
terrible  accident  in  one  of  the  down-town  streets. 
His  face  had  a  hard  look  upon  it,  and  as  I  drew 
near  he  gave  me  a  hard  smile  that  almost  froze 
the  blood  in   my  veins.     I  took  his  hand  and 
bent  over  him  and  spoke,  but  he  made  no    ans- 
wer.    His  glassy  eyes  only  opened  to  close  again. 
I  felt  that  death  had  taken  hold  of  his  heart- 
strings, and  that  the  end  would  only  be  a  matter 
oi  a  few  minutes. 
At  the  bedside  knelt  the  sweet-faced  nun,  who 
(105) 


:1>: 


106 


SHADOW  AND  SUNSHINE. 


1  I    ;• 


had  not  left  him  since  his  body  had  been  carried 
in,  early  in  the  afternoon.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
be  treasuring  visions  other  mortals  dreamed  not 
of,  and  her  lips  were  tuned  to  the  melody  of 
prayer.  Presently,  she  rose,  and  bending  over 
the  dying  man,  listened  for  a  moment,  then 
answered  sweetly:  "Vou  must  not  speak  so, 
poormani  You  are  not  alone,  for  God  Himself 
is  near,  willing  to  be  your  friend — " 

"My  friend?"  faintly  spoke  up  the  dying  man, 
and  for  an  instant  he  lingered  upon  the  music  of 
that  word,  whose  true  meaning  he  had  never 
realized  until  now.     But  it  was  too  late. 

Suddenly,  a  darkness  crept  into  his  wild  eyes, 
a  loud  volley  of  curses  fell  from  his  lips — he 
cursed  God,  life,  everybody— curses  so  horrible 
that  the  very  air  and  rose  leaves  trembled  and 
stirred  the  hearts  of  the  many  sleepless  observers 
who  moved  uneasily  in  their  white  beds  in  the 
long  ward.  His  fists  clinched  terribly,  his 
whole  body  shook,  and  another  awful  curse  died 
on  his  lips.  And  his  soul  passed  out  into  a  cold 
and  desolate  night,  with  no  bright  star  to  cheer 
its  bitter  journey. 

The  good,  little  nun  stared  a  minute  into  the 
face,  set  cold  in  death.  A  few  tears  crept  from 
her  tired  eyes;  they  rolled  down  her  snowy 
guimpe,  and  I  almost  thought  I  heard  them  fall, 
so  deep  was  the  silence. 


SHADOW  AND  StrNSHINK.  107 

Then,  turning  to  me,  she  whispered-     "He  is 
gone-poor  mani  God  be  merciful!"  and  sadlv 
she  crept  out  of  the   long,  white   ward,    sick  at 
heart  for  the  passing  of  an   unrepenting  soul. 
And  instantly  these  beautiful  lines  came  to  me- 
If  we  live  truly,  we  shall  see   truly.  "  It  is  as 
«»sy  for  the  strongman  to  be  strong,  as  it  is  for 
the  weak  tobe  weak.     When  we  have  new  per- 
ception,  we  shall  gladly  disburden  the  memwy 
of  Its  hoarded  treasures  as  old   rubbish.     When 
a  man  lives  with  God,  his  voice  shall  be  assweet 
as  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and  the  rustle  of  the 
com. ' ' 

I  paused  a  moment  in  the  presence  of  death 
andagainmyheart  ached,  for  it  had  been  wit- 
ness to  many  such  scenes.     Presently,  the  sound 
of  a  little  silver  bell   floated   outside,  down   the 
long  corridor.     It  grew  louder  and  louder    as  it 
drew  nearer,  and  in  another  minute  the  6ld  gray 
haired  chaplain  passed  in  the  light  of  a   buminjr 
randle,  which  the  good  Sister  carried  reverently 
Another  soul   was  hovering  on  the  brink    of 
eternity;  another  life  had  almost  spent  its  fires  in 
Ae  mighty  battle  of  existence.     It  was  pa.ssing 
from  the  Now  into  the  Then. 

The  music  of  the  little  bell  fell  upon  my  heart 
and  eagerly  I  followed-followed  the  little  bell 
and  the  pale,  flickering  candle-light.  Upon  a 
spotless  pillow,  lay  the  sickened,  tired   head  of 


lOS 


SHADOW  AND  SUNSHINE. 


:.. 


I 


the  dying  woman.  She  was  quite  young^-on 
her  cheeks  still  lingered  the  flush  of  the  last 
twilight,  that  had  shone  through  the  large  open 
windows.  Yes,  the  twilight  of  her  life  was  over, 
and  now  the  night  was  waiting  with  her  glorious 
hours  of  resi,  sacred  and  satisfying.  But  she 
feared  not,  for  Christ — the  Pilot  of  her  soul — wa.s 
about  to  come  to  her  to  steer  her  little  barque  in- 
to the  blessed  tide  of  Peace,  that  flowed  beneath 
the  sunshines  of  angels'  smiles  through  a  land 
of  roses,  where  Joy  and  Love  walked  arm  in  arm 
through  asphodelian  meadows,  and  God  Him- 
.self  sat  reigning  in  His  heaven. 

Heaven  would  soon  be  hers.  Her  years  had 
been  one  continual  shower  of  prayer  and  song. 
Other  lives  were  the  richer  for  her  having  lived, 
and  as  she  lay  there,  one  could  almost  see  the 
fingers  of  the  MasUr  stealing,  in  the  silence,  to 
pluck  frotn  His  garden  one  of  life's  purest  floweis 
— a  flower  with  its  young  life  still  before  it — a 
flower  with  all  its  leafy  hopes  yet  folded — a 
flower  tended  and  watched  and  nourished  by 
Himself  and  destined  to  bloom  to  loveliness  be- 
neath other  skies. 

Presently,  the  priest  administered  the  Commun- 
ion. His  hands  shook  a  little,  and  no  wonder — for 
they  held,  in  that  brief  moment,  the  mighty  King 
of  Heaven.  The  sick  woman  smiled.  The 
priest  had  brought  her  soul's   Pilot  and    she 


■      ii 


itHAOOW  AND  SUNSHIKB. 


108 


wanted  nothing  more.  And,  tor  some  time  all 
knelt  it  prayer.  Only  now  and  then,  the  aob 
of  a  strong  mai,  .u  the  rear  made  one  feel  aad. 
It  was  the  husband  of  the  dying  woman.  But  a 
year  ago.  the  old  chaplin  had  made  the  two,  man 
and  wife.  The  woman's  eyes  opened  for  a  mo- 
ment. "The  prayers  are  so  lovely,"  she  said. 
'They  float  over  the  distant  waters  that  divide 
us  like  the  music  of  soft-toned  reeds,  and  my 
Pilot  and  I  are  happier  on  account  of  them." 
Then,  in  trembling  voice,  she  called-  "The 
childl    Jim!    Wherearethey?" 

The  kind  nun  rose,  bent  for  an  insta.nt  over 
the  white  crib,  and  took  from  it  a  little  blue-eyed 
babe;  it  had  the  face  of  an  angel,  and  tenderly 
she  placed  it  in  the  dying  woman's  arms. 
Good-byel  Good-byel  my  little  onel  Thou  art 
pure  as  the  snow,  my  little  first-bom— my  Mary  I 
God  always,  sooner  or  later,  plucks  a  lil>"  forthe 
rose.  You  are  my  lily— my  little,  white-souled 
child,  and  I  will  not  have  to  wait  long  till  you 
rest  safely  in  your  mother's  arms  in  heaven." 

Unconsciously,  almost,    Bryant  s  lines  came 
to  me,  and  my  lips  repeated  quietly: 
"Innocent  child  and  snow-white  flower. 
Well  are  ye  paired  in  your  opening  hour; 
Thus  should  the  pure  and  the  lovely  meet. 
Stainless  with  stainless  and  sweet  with  sweet 
White  as  those  leaves  fast  blown  apart 
Are  the  folds  of  thy  own  young  heart: 
Guilty  passion  and  cankering  care 
Never  have  left  their  traces  there. " 


I  in 

1  ^'ii 

:|l 

^ 

i   H 

i' 

■■• 

'   n 

^1  1 

i: 

ii 

no 


SHADOW  AMI  HUN8HINK. 


Gladly,  the  dying  woman  impreswed  a  parting 
kiss  on  the  tiny  baby  cheek.  For  a  moment,  she 
gazed  at  the  little  one.  "O  GodI"  she  exclaim* 
sd,  "willingly  do  I  give  up  my  life  for  the  sake 
of  my  newborn  babe— my  Mary,"  and,  tremb- 
ling, she  handed  the  precious  charge  into  the 
arms  the  gentle,  kind  nun.  Then,  turning  to 
her  husband,  she  said  with  quivering  lips:  '  Do 
not  weep,  Jim!  I  am  so  happ>',  and  when  I  am 
<one  I  will  not  cease  praying  for  you,  my  love. 
God  is  good,  and  I  ^will  ask  Him  to  bring  you 
and  my  little  one  home  to  me— soon. ' '  And  while 
3ur  lips  moved  slowly  in  prayer,  her  own  follow- 
ed anxiously,  and  when  the  end  came — as  it  did 
peacefully  and  quietly — the  happy  mother,  who 
had  tasted  the  joys  of  motherhood  and  sacrifice, 
opened  her  eyes  and  had  a  smile  for  each  of  us. 
And,  silently,  her  white  soul  went  out  to  the 
Pilot,  who  stood  waiting  at  the  blessed  foothills 
of  Eternity,  in  a  pleasant  dawn,  to  steer  it  into 
the  heavenly  calms — "into  the  broad  sunshine  of 
the  other  life,"  as  Longfellow  so  lieautifuUy  ex- 
presses it. 

' '  Life  is  made  up  of  strange  pictures ,"  the  nun 
said  tome,  as  we  walked  down  the  long  corridors. 
"To-night,  w,  two,  have  witnessed  the  Auti^mn 
of  despair  and  the  Summer  of  hope;  in  one  was 
the  impression  of  the  E\-il  One;  in  the  other  the 
nobTe  spirituality  of  the  divine  Galilean,  Himself. 


SHADOW  AND  SUNSHINX.  HI 

One  wutheahadow,  the  other  the  Haimhine:  one 
bringn  a  touch  of  pain,  but  the  other  a  feeling  of 
joy,  for  to  have  witnewed  such  a  death  is  almost 
aRlinipiieof  heaven  itaelf." 
And  the  humble,  little  nun  was  right. 


In  I 


i 


I 


!  ,J' 


FOR  LOVE'S  OWN  SAKE. 

Chapter  I. 
"The  rose  is  fairest,  when  'tis  budding  new, 
The  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from  fears; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  washed  with  morning  dew 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalmed  in  tears." 
Scott  (Lady  of  the  Lake,  Canto  IV.) 
A  cool  breeze  swept  lightly  through  the  draw- 
ing-room windows  of  the  St.  G«orge  mansion  on 
Champlain  street,  and  the  twilight  shadows  were 
already  creeping  around  the  streets,  when  Beat- 
rice St.  George— a  fair  maid  of  twenty  summers 
— r  ijoiced  that  the  lonely  day  was  nearly  at  an 
end,  as  she  sat  running  her  nimble  fingers  over 
the  ivory  keys  of  her  new  piano.      She  was  an 
only  child,  and  her  lather,  the  Hon.  Harvey  St. 
George  fairly  idolized  her,  and  no  wonder,  for 
she  was  indeed  an  ideal  picture  of  Canadian 
womanhood  and,  as  she  sat  there  in  the  dusk  in 
her  dress  of  silk,  with  iu  many  tasty  gatherings 
of  ribbons  and  lace,  ojie  could  not  but  admire 
her  rare  beauty.    Beatrice  had  been  rather  gloomy 
all  day,  yet  never  before  had  she  played  Mendel- 
ssohn with  so  much  expression  as  now.     Her 
(113) 


I.'.   * 


114 


FOR  LOVE'S  OWN  SAKE. 


very  sjul  was  in  her  music  and  the  clear,  ringing 
notes  of  the  "Spring  Song,"  stole  into  ever>- 
corner  of  that  magnificently  furnished  room,  the 
air  of  which  was  redolent  with  the  breath  of  fresh 
roses.  And  now  she  rose  from  the  piano,  a  slen- 
der, though  graceful  figjure — her  mouth 
"with  steady  sweetness  set 
And  eyes  conveying  unaware. 

The  distant  hint  of  some  regret 
That  harbored  there." 
Slowly,  she  crossed  'the  room  to  stir  the  fire, 
which  was  almost  out,  and  then  her  eyes  wand- 
ered to  the  picture  of  a  woman,  which  hung  in 
its  deep  gilt  frame  above  the  mantle-piece.  Long 
she  stood  there,  gazing  into  the  beloved  counten- 
ance of  her  poor,  dead  mother,  and  almost  un- 
consciously she  whispered  to  herself:  "Poor, 
dear  mother!  would  that  you  were  with  me  nowl 
O,  my  heart  is  heavy  with  its  dregs  of  sorrow. 
Ten  long  years  have  passed  since  the  night  your 
fevered  lips  kissed  me  their  last  good-bye.  01 
how  cruel  it  was  that  you  were  taken  from  me  at 
a  time  when  I  needed  your  counsel  most!  But 
no,  it  was  not  cruel — no,  I  dare  not  speak  thus. 
God  knew  what  was  best  and  happiness  and 
peace  will  surely  come  to  me  again.  O,  mother, 
would  that  you  were  -near  to  advise  me  nowl  I 
am  sorely  distressed.  Father  is  bound  to  have 
me  marry  Count  Albertini,  an  Italian  nobleman. 


FOR  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKR. 


115 


and  the  thought  of  it  nearly  drives  me  mad.  I 
do  not,  cannnot,  love  him.  He  asks  me  to  for- 
sake  my  religion,  your  religion,  mother,  for 
wealth,  distinction  and  an  empty  title,  and,  when 
I  mention  Francois  Fortier's  name,  father  drifts 
into  a  violent  fit  of  anger.  But  I  am  resolved.  I 
will  never  forsake  the  Catholic  Church  for  a  hun- 
dred Italian  mnts  like  Albertini.  I  will  marry 
Francois  Fortier— the  man  I  love.  He  is  only  a 
poor  book-keeper,  mother,  but  he  has  a  heart  of 
gold.  He  has  been  very  reckless  of  late  and 
has  not  seen  the  inside  of  a  Church  foryeats,  but 
I  love  him,  and  I  will  make  a  man  of  him.  Poor 
mother!  poor  Francois — " 

She  could  not  speak  another  word.  Her  feel- 
ings  got  the  better  of  her  and  she  sank  down  upon 
the  sofa  near  by,  exhausted  and  powerless  and 
wept  like  a  child.  A  few  minutes  later,  she  was 
on  her  feet  again,  and  her  face  was  as  white  as 
that  of  the  carved  ivory  figure  of  the  Madonna 
that  stood  upon  the  piano.  With  heavy  heart 
she  walked  to  the  large  open  window,  facing  the 
busy,  lighted  streets,  and  as  she  stood  there,  her 
thoughts  wrestled  with  a  great  and  mighty  prob- 
lem. The  city  clock  had  just  struck  eight,  and 
sadly  she  gazed  out  into  the  night,  while  the 
heart  of  the  city  wa?  vibrant  with  life.  The  band 
was  playing  on  the  island  near  by  and  crowds  of 
people  were  walking  in  that  direction.    Presently 


116 


I'OK  LOV«'s  OWiN  SAKK. 


I    • 


it  struck  up  the  overture  of  Mascagiu's  famous 
opera,  and,  when  the  solo  cornetist  played  the 
"Ave  Maria,"  Beatrice  listened  with  both  ears. 
Oh,  it  was  so  beautiful;  it  just  suited  her  present 
state  of  mind  and  the  tears  were  again  gathering 
under  her  soft  eyelids.  To  har  it  sounded  like 
the  voice  of  some  longing,-  and  desolate  heart, 
telling  forth  its  tale  of  sorrow  into  the  darkness 
of  night.  It  touched  a  tender  chord  in  her  heart 
and  almost  dreamingly,  she  whispered  to  the 
busy  night  winds:  , 

"Oh,  for  that  sweet,  untroubled  rest 
That  poets  oft  have  sung! 

The  babe  upon  its  mother's  breast. 
The  bird  upon  its  young. 

The  heart  asleep  without  a  pain. 
When  shall  I  know  that  sleep  again?" 

Just  then,  she  felt  a  light  tap  on  her  shoulders. 
She  turned  her  head  nervously,  somewhat 
frightened,  and  her  father  stood  before  her. 

"Ah,  Beatrice  darling!"  he  began,  as  he  kiss- 
ed her  cheeks  tenderly.  "Don't  be  frig'  tened, 
it  is  only  papa.  Why,  how  tired  and  worn  you 
look,  dear!  I  suppose  you  were  wondering  what 
had  happened  me.  And  is  it  really  nine  o'clock? 
Well,  I  was  so  busy  at  the  oflSce  this  afternoon, 
closing  a  few  bargains  in  real-estate  and  those 
blundering  fellows  held  me  fast  until  now.  But 
Beatrice!  Child!     You  look  trftubled.     What  has 


1     !»■• 
I     !  I 


FOR  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKE. 


117 


happened?  Your  eye*  are  red— you  were  weep- 
ing, child!  Come  what  is  the  matter,  darling?" 
And,  saying  this,  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Nothing  very  much,"   answered   Beatrice. 

' '  The  band  in  the  park  yonder  played  some  beauti  - 

ful  selections  and,  as  I  listened,  my  heart  grew  so 

lonesome.     And  then,  too,  I  thought  of  mother' 

poor,  dear  mother!     Oh  how  happy  I  would  be 

could  I  only  hear  her  vorce!  Do  you  know  father, 

that  this  is  the  anniversary  of  her  death?' '   There 

was  silence  and  the  Hon.    Harvey   St.  George 

gazed  sorrowfully  at  the  woman  in  oil  above  the 

mantel-piece,  and,  when  Beatrice  turned  slightly, 

she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  filling  up  with  tears." 

"Come  father,"  she  said,   "Constance  awaits 

you  for  supper  in  the  dining  room.     The  bell 

sounded  ten  minutes  ago. ' •    And  together  they 

rose  and,  arm  in  arm,  left  the  drawing  room. 

The  Hon.  Harvey  St.  George  was  one  of  the 
leading  real-estate  dealers  in  the  city,  and  was 
considered  by  some,  as  being  very  wealthy,  while 
others  again  a.sserted  that  he  was  on  the  down- 
ward path— on  his  last  legs,  as  the  saying  goes— 
and  that  before  many  moons  the  beauriful  St. 
George  mansion  would  •)e  in  the  hands  of  hi.s 
creditors.  A  man  of  very  distinguished  appear- 
ance, he  moved  in  the  best  circles  of  .society. 
His  wife  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Senator 
Snnth,  and,  three  years  after  her  marriage,  she 


118 


FOR  UlVh'S  OWN  SAKK. 


\l- 


became  a  convert  to  the  Catholic  faith.  After 
her  death,  St  George  made  up  his  mind  never 
to  marry  again.  He  was  a  large-hearted,  good- 
natured  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  gave  freely  to  the 
poor,  but  he  'lad  one  great  fault;  he  had  an  un- 
governable, bad  temper,  and,  when  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  do  a  thing,  he  generally  did  it.  He 
loved  his  daughter  almost  too  much,  and,  as  her 
father,  sought  her  obedience  in  all  things. 
St.  George,  himself  frequented  no  particular 
church.  Mrs.  St.  Geoi^  had  been  a  good  Cath- 
olic and  Beatrice  was  also  brought  up  in  her 
mother's  faith,  and  it  had  been  a  rare  thing  to 
hear  a  word  of  ridicule  from  St.  George's  lips. 
But  now,  in  his  flights  of  temper,  he  would  say 
distressing  and  cutting  things,  that  pierced  Beat- 
rice's very  soul,  but  she  always  forgave  him. 
The  other  member  of  the  household  was  Con- 
stance Burke,  the  trusty  old  servant,  who,  ever 
since  the  night  of  Beatrice's  mother's  death,  had 
made  the  St.  George  mansion  her  home.  She 
was  the  best  friend  Beatrice  had  in  all  this  world 
and,  to  her  example  and  timely  instructions, 
the  girl  owed  in  part,  her  strong  grounding  in 
character. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  dining  room.  Beatrice 
was  looking  over  the  daily  papers  and  her  father 
was  taking hissupperratherquietly.  Something 
was  troubling  him,  and  it  left  its  shadow  on  his 


I  I 


FOR  LOVK  S  OWN  SAKH. 


119 


handsome  face.  His  brow  was  wrinkled  and  ais 
eyes  were  set.  Something  was  worr ;  lag  him  and 
Beatrice  knew  it  Just  then,  Constance  opened 
the  door  and  said:  "Mr.  St.  George,  the  clerk 
has  just  brought  the  mail,  and  here,  Beatrice,  is 
a  letter  for  you."  With  her  back  to  Mr.  St. 
George,  the  good-natured  women  kissed  the  per- 
fumed envelope  and  handed  it  to  Beatrice,  with 
a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"Thatijtyou,  Constance.  From  FrancoisI  my 
Francois,"  whispered  Beatrice  to  herself,  as  she 
quickly  opened  the  letter.  Then  she  closed  it 
again;  her  face  turned  pale,  and  the  letter  with  the 
odor  of  crushed  violets  fell  to  the  floor.  Nervous- 
lyshe  snatched  it  upagain,  and  read  it,  her  hands 
shaking  with  fear — 

Room  46,  Hotel  Lafayette. 
(Sydenham  Street.) 

Monday  Evening. 
Dear  Beatrice, 

I  could  not  resist  writing  you  again.  Your 
resolution  came  as  a  thunderbolt  to  me.  Do  re- 
consider the  matter,  Beatrice,  for  my  sake,  do! 
I  ask  once  more.  I  love  you,  and  will  give  yon 
wealth,  distinction  and  happiness,  and  a  beauti- 
ful home  in  Naples,  if  you  consent  to  become  my 
wife.  By  doing  this  you  will  save  your  father 
from  utter  ruin.  Think  well!  You  may  some 
day  regret  this  hasty  act. 

Yours 

XICCOI  A  ALBERTINI. 


II 


120 


FOR  LOVB'S  OWN  SAKR. 


I     ;n 


Beatrice  St  George's  face  paled  when  she  had 
finished  the  letter;  she  was  seized  with  an  almost 
superhuman  dread  of  some  impending  calamity 
and  the  name  of  Niccola  Albertini  brought  a 
new  terror  to  her  soul.  Again  this  man,  whom 
she  hated  so,  had  dared  to  thrust  himself  into  her 
very  existence.  Only  yesterday,  she  had  written 
him  a  burning  letter,  that  she  could  never  become 
his  wife— but  without  avail.  "By  doing  this, 
you  will  .save  your  father  from  utter  ruin." 
What  did  he  mean?  Ah  I  these  were  the  words 
that  pained  her  deeply  and,  for  a  minute,  she 
stared  into  space,  almost  wildly,  the  vessels  in 
her  temples  throbbing  visibly.     Poor  girl! 

During  all  this  time,  St.  George  was  eyeing 
his  daughter  critically,  and  a  cynical  smile  stole 
round  his  eyes,  as  he  exclaimed:  "Why  Beat- 
rice, what  has  happened?  The  letter  seems  to 
have  brought  you  distressing  news.  Let  me  read 
it,  childl"  Beatrice  raised  her  drooping  head 
and  stared  wildly  at  her  father,  and,  rising, 
obeyed  and  handed  him  the  Count's  letter. 

Mr.  St.  George  threw  himself  back  in  his  easy 
chair  and,  quickly,  his  eyes  scanned  the  letter; 
then  he  raised  his  head,  and  the  furrows  on  his 
face  deepened.  Beatrice  could  not  sit  it  out;  she 
rose  and  walked  the  floor  with  an  impetuous 
tread,  an expres.sion  of  deepanguish  in  her  giriish 
eyes.     Her  father  watched  her,  as  a  cat  watches 


FOR  LOVE'S  OWN  SAKE. 


121 


a  mouse,    and  at  last  he  exclaimed  somewhat 
hoarsely: 

"Well,  Beatricel     What  have  you  to  say?" 

The  girl  stood  still  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and, 
raising  her  misty  eyes  to  his,  exclaimed  almost 
abruptly:  "Father!  it  is  impossible.  Utterly 
impossible!  Why  do  you  persist  in  this  marriage 
with  this  man,  whom  I  hate  and  can  never  love? 
I  cannot  give  up  Francois  Fortier,  for  I  love  him 
with  all  my  heart." 

"And  you  prefer,"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  "that 
low-bred  fellow,  that  good-for-nothing  scamp,  to 
a  wealthy  and  refined  man  like  Count  Albertini? 
For  a  girt  of  your  bringing  up,  Beatrice,  I  must 
say,  your  taste  is  remarkable."  Just  then  his 
foot  came  to  the  floor  with  a  loud  noise. 

"Oh,  father!  How  can  you  speak  sc  of  Fran- 
cois? He  may  not  have  the  wealth  of  an  Alber- 
tini, but  if  the  word  gentleman  has  any  meaning, 
father,  then,  he  is  a  gentleman.  I  have  known 
him  all  these  years  and  many  a  time  mother  ran 
her  fingers  through  his  golden  hair,  when  we, 
two,  were  playmates.  But  that  was  long  age' 
To-day  he  is  the  self-same  fellow,  a  trifle  careless, 
I  know^but  he  can  hardly  be  blamed  for  that! 
I,eft  an  orphan  at  eight,  and  adopted  by  a 
careless  aunt,  he  gradually  drifted  away  from 
God,  and  now— well,  he  is  nothing.  If  I  give 
him  up  now,  he  will  go  to  utter  ruin.     But  father, 


122 


FOR  love's  own  SAKB. 


I  cannot  do  it.  I  love  him  and  I  will  marry  him; 
I  will  help  him  to  save  hia  soul  and  lead  him 
back  into  the  embrace  of  the  Catholic  faith,  which 
his  poor,  dead  parents  loved  so  tenderly.  Father! 
I  have  a  duty  to  perform— the  salvation  of  the 
soul  of  Francois  Fortier. " 

"Francois  Fortier,  that  miserable  worm  of  the 
street,  that  regenerate  Catholic,  to  be  married  to 
the  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Harvey  St.  George— 
impossiblel  Curse  himi  Well,  after  all,  this  is 
what  a  father  can  expect  for  sending  his  daugh- 
ter to  a  Convent  for  a  liberal  education;  this,  then, 
is  the  sort  of  rubbish,  those  pale-faced  nuns  in- 
stil into  the  hearts  of  their  scholars.  They  make 
them  idolize  their  very  church — set  their  idola- 
trous faith  above  wealth,  distinction,  honor  and 
fame.     Oh,  whatfollyl" 

Beatrice,  weak  and  despairing,  sank  down  on 
the  couch,  near  the  fire  place.  There  was  a 
momentary  silence  and  she  began:  "Fatherl  How 
can  you  speak  so  insultingly  of  the  good  Sisters? 
How  dare  you  stigmatize  my  faith,  my  mother's 
faith,  your  wife's  faith,  as  idolatrous?  Oh,  fa- 
ther, it  breaks  my  poor  heart.  You  must  be  go- 
ing mad.  I  prize  my  faith,  and  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  say  it,  above  anything  earthly — 
above  wealth,  distinction,  honor  and  fame,  and 
as  long  as  I  hold  the  power  of  speech,  I  will 
never  sell  my  soul  for  the  love  of  that  scheming 


FOR  love's  own  sake. 


12S 


Italian.  To  live  with  him  would  be  to  me  but 
a  lingering  death.  Oh,  fatherl  Be  merciful  to  me 
and  I  will  bless  you  all  my  life."  And  Beatrice 
wept  bitterly. 

A  groan  burst  from  St.  George'slips;  he  wrung 
his  hands,  the  color  left  his  cheeks,  and,  rising 
from  his  chair,  he  walked  o--er  to  where  Beatrice 
was  sitting  and  answered  somewhat  calmly,  as 
his  temper  was  gradually  abating:  "Beatrice, 
child,  listenl  I  am  a  prisoner  in  the  Count's 
hands.  The  letter  reads,  you  see — "by  doing 
this  you  will  save  your  father  from  utter  ruin. ' ' 
Again  these  words  burned  into  Beatrice's  very 
soul.  She  had  forgotten  them  in  the  hasty  dis- 
cussion that  had  followed,  but  now  again  they 
stood,  black  and  staring,  before  her  tearful  eyes. 
"Beatrice,"  continued  her  father,  "I  have 
never  told  you  anything  concerning  my  business 
relations  with  Albertini,  but  now  the  hour  has 
come,  and  your  marriage  is  the  only  means  of 
sparing  me  from  the  ignominy  of  disgrace.  The 
Count  holds  a  large  mortgage,  on  all  my  posses- 
sions, which  he  will  destroy  if  you  consent  to  be- 
come his  wife.  I  met  him  at  the  Hotel  Lafayette 
this  morning,  and  he  told  me  that,  if  you  refuse, 
I  — I  — the  Hon.  Harvey  St.  George — will  be  a 
pauper  in  the  streets  of  the  city,  before  to-mor- 
row's sun  has  coursed  the  blue  canopy  to  its 
western  home.     Will  you  then  persist  in  your 


IM 


FOU  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKS. 


'  r 

1  - 

•-! 

1 

1 
j 

J 
1 

1     ' 

answer  and  see  your  father  publicly  disgraced, 
before  your  very  eyes?  Think  again,  child,  and 
I  will  await  your  answer  on  the  morrow. "  And 
then  Harvey  St.  George  left  the  dining-room 
with  the  day's  mail  under  his  arm,  while  Beat- 
rice buried  her  head  in  a  silk  cushion  on  the  sofa 
and  sobbed  aloud  in  the  extremity  of  her  anguish. 

Constance  Burke  soon  knelt  at  her  side  whis- 
pering sweet  and  consoling  words,  and  her  kind 
voice  and  bright  chee^fful  smile  soon  made  Beat- 
rice feel  better. 

"Oh,  Constance,  I  came  near  forgetting. 
Will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"Certainly,  dear,"  came  the  answer,  clear  and 
distinct,  like  a  silver  bell. 

To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  mother's  death, 
and  I  must  have  a  mass  read  for  her  in  the  morn- 
ing. Go  at  once  to  Father  Stanislaus,  as  it  is 
gett'ng  late,  and  to-morrow  morning  we  will  go 
to  confession  I" 

"Good-bye,  Beatricel" 

"Good-bye,  dear!"  And  inaminute  Constance 
was  gone. 

BeatT''^  went  to  her  room  that  night  sadder 
than  ever.  She  sank  down  on  her  knee  in  front 
of  the  large  white  statute  of  the  Virgin,  which 
her  mother  had  given  her  on  her  tenth  birthday, 
and  wept  and  prayed  convulsively.  "O  Queen 
of  Mercy!  be  my  stay  in  this  darkened  hour  of 


FOR  I/JVK  S  OWN  SAKK. 


125 


triall  I  seek  thy  advice — what  shall  I  do? 
Would  that  mother  were  only  here!  Poor,  poor 
motherl  And  my  poor  Francois,  what  will  be- 
come of  him?  I  am  helpless  in  my  father's 
hands.  Must  I  obey  him,  when  my  conscience 
says — no?  But  I  will  have  to  yield.  I  am  sure  of 
it — I  feel  it.     O,  my  poor,  poor  Francois!" 

At  an  early  hour  next  morning  Beatrice  and 
Constance  returned  from  Mass.  They  had  both 
received  the  "Bread  of  Angels"  and  Beatrice  was 
prepared  to  face  the  worst  and  yet  she  was  happy 
as  the  birds,  flying  through  the  air.  She  had 
made  her  peace  with  God  and  she  had  nothing 
to  fear. 

That  morning  after  breakfast,  a  stormy  scene 
followed.  St.  George's  temper  grew  violent. 
"Well,  Beatrice,"  he  asked,  cooly,  "I  await 
your  answer.  Will  you,  for  your  father's  sake, 
consent  to  marry  Count  Albertini?" 

"You  have  my  decision,  father,"  came  the 
answer,  clear  and  distinct,  and  the  girl's  lips 
trembled.  ' '  I  will  not,  cannot  consent  to  become 
his  wife." 

"Then,  ungrateful  girll"  he  thundered  out 
viciously,  as  he  pounded  his  fist  on  the  table, 
"do  your  worst!  You  are  no  longer  a  child  of 
mine.  Your  disobedience  and  stubbomess  has 
forced  me  to  hate  you  with  all  the  hatred  of  a 
once  loving  heart.     Go,  where  you  will— drift 


126 


FOR  love's  own  sake. 


! 


5 


1       !■  >• 

1 1  f ' 


away  to  the  hospital  or  alms  house,  but  never 
never  again  look  up  to  me  as  your  father.  In 
your  direst  extremity,  expect  not  even  a  word  of 
pity  from  me.  I  would  not  even  spare  you  un- 
grateful child,  and  give  a  single  penny  to 'save 
you  from  a  pauper's  grave.  I  swear  it.  Go 
marry  your  Francois!  Go.  go  to  your  Catholic 
Church  and  see  what  she  will  do  for  youi" 

The  Hon.  Harvey  St.  George  left  the  table 
and  paced  the  room,  with  the  fury  of  a  caged 
lion.  Beatrice  ran  up'to  him  and  threw  her  arms 
about  him  and  cried  out  in  the  fullness  of  her 
pure,  youngheart:"0,  father!  Spare  me!  Save 
mel  Don't  throw  me  out  into  the  cold  streetsi 

Go!  Go!  I  know  you  not,"'  he  cried,  as  he 
ran  out  of  the  room. 

Beatrice,  powerless  as  an  autumn  leaf,  fell  to 
the  floor  sobbing  as  if  her  young  heart  would 
break  There  was  a  slight  noise— the  front  door 
closed  vnth  a  bang  and.  in  an  instant,  the  Hon. 
Harvey  St.  George  was  lost  in  the  black,  surging 
crowds,  that  filled  Champlain  street. 

That  afternoon,  two  deeply  veiled  women  en- 
tered the  humble  little  church,  near  the  city 
park.  They  were  Beatrice  St.  George  and  Con- 
stance Burke.  They  had  left  the  beautiful  St. 
George  mansion-forever,  and  at  Constance's 
invitation,  Beatrice  was  now  going  to  make  her 
home  with  the  Eurkes." 


Chapter  U 


Francois  Fortier  sat  on  the  balcony  of  the  Hotel 
Frontenac,  idly  puffing  away  at  his  cigarette. 
It  was  the  hour  of  four  in  the  afternoon.     His 
work  at  the  office  was  finished,  and  he  sat  gazing 
down  sadly  into  the  street,  busy  with  excitement. 
He  was  a  man  of  fine  appearance,  and  on  his 
young  face,  there  lurked  a  tender  smile.     His 
laiTge,  black  eyes,  bright  and  dancing  with  almost 
childish  gladness,  held  a  singular  fascination  and, 
on  his  broad  and  full  forehead,  there  was  not  a 
wrinkle  of  care.     His  complexion  was  fair  and 
healthy,  and  the  cool  north-wind  had  rouged  his 
cheeks  until  they  matched  the  brilliant  hue  of  his 
red  neck-tie.     A  few  feet  away  sat  a   rather 
strange  looking  man,  who  eyed  Francois  almost 
continually.     He  was  dressed  in  a  rich  black 
suit,   and  wore  a  heavy  dark   moustache  and 
beard.     A  pair  of  deep  colored  glasses  were  fast- 
ened to  his  rather  stubby  nose.      He  was  one  of 
the  latest  arrivals  at  the  Frontenac— a  foreigner, 
in  fact,  they  said— and,  only  a  few  hours  since! 
Francois  had  met  this  strange  man,  downstairs 
whose  card  read: 

Prof.  Herman  Von  Klingfeld, 

Director  Theatre  Royal. 

20  Potsdam   Place.  Berlin,    Germany. 

(127) 


128 


FOR  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKE. 


Francois  did  not  know  that  the  distingu- 
ished visitor  was  so  near  until  he  heard  his  slight 
cough,  and  turning  he  greeted  the  Professor  with 
a  cheery  "good  afternoon"  and  motioned  him  to 
his  side.  The  Professor  obeyed  and  in  a  second 
began  to  talk  vociferously. 

"Well,  this  is  a  delightful  afternoon, ' '  he  went 
on.  "This  Canadian  air  makes  me  feel  like  a 
new  man.  This  morning  I  called  in  to  see  Dr. 
Hutchinson,  the  renywned  eye-specialist.  You 
know  I  heard  of  this  man  away  over  in  Germany 
and  he  made  some  wonderful  cures.  My  eyesight 
had  been  failing  rapidly  for  the  past  few  months 
and  I  decided  to  give  him  a  trial—  md  this  is 
why  I  am  here.  The  doctor  intends  operating 
in  a  few  days  and  gives  me  great  hopes.  " 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Fortier,  as  he  lit  another 
cigarette,  "he  is  a  great  man,  and  he  has  a  won- 
derful practice.  If  anybody  can  help  you,  then 
Hutchinson  is  the  man  to  do  it." 

A  cold  wind  was  now  blowing  from  the  north, 
and  the  strange  man  in  black  rose  and  saidi 
"Come,  Fortier.  It  is  getting  rather  chilly  out 
here.  Let  us  go  in.  Come  to  my  room— it  is 
right  on  this  flat,  and  let  us  have  a  game  of 
cards. "  And,  when  they  reached  the  room,  Von 
Klingfeld  handed  Francois  a  chair  near  the  table, 
that  stood  facing  the  large,  open  window. 


FOR  LOVE'S  OWN  SAKE. 


129 


"Well,  what  shall  it  be.  Professor,  euchre  or 
pedro?"  questioned  Francois. 

"Neither."  answered  Von  Klingfeld,  "tho.se 
are  old  maids'  games.  They  go  at  five  o'clock 
teas  and  the  like,  but  then  we  only  laugh  at  them 
over  in  Berlin.  What  say  you  to  a  game  of 
poker?" 

Poker?' '  asked  Francois,  "well  really,  Profess- 
or I  don't  know  a  great  deal  about  the  game,  as 
I  have  played  it  so  little.  Let  it  be  poker,  then 
but  remember  I  am  only  a  gteen-hom  at  the 
game."  An  eager  smile  lit  up  the  German's 
lace.  as  he  shufHed  the  cards. 

They  had  now  been  playing  several  hours  and 
the  air  of  the  room  was  heavy  with  clouds  of 
strong-smelling  smoke.  On  the  table  stood  sev- 
eral empty  bottles  of  champagne;  the  bell-boy 
had  evidently  been  kept  busy  running  the  stairs. 
There  was  a  slight  rap  on  the  door. 
"Come  in!"  shouted  out  Von  KUngfeld 
"Ah,  It  is  you  Sims.  Walk  right  in  and 
make  yourself  miserable,  partner  I"  chuckled 
he  lustily. 

"How  do  you  do,  Harry  ?" 
"Hello,  there,  Francois. " 
.1. '  "^°°*' y°«  take  a  hand  in  the  game  ?"  asked 
the  black-headed  Professor.     "No,  thank  you 
Von  Klingfeld,"  answered  Harry  Sims.  "I  will 
only  look  on." 


I    i 


" 


lao 


FOR  LOVE  S  OWN  SAKE. 


Thirty  minutes  later  Francois  rose  from  the 
table,  after  he  had  counted  up  his  winnings  on 
the  tally  card,  that  lay  at  his  elbow. 

"And  do  you  really  want  to  go,  Fortier?" 
mumbled  forth  Von  Klingfeld,  with  the  accent 
on  the  "really." 

"I  must.  Professor.  I  must  have  a  draught 
of  fresh  air.  The  smoke  in  here  is  so  oppress- 
ive," answered  Francois. 

"Oh,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  smoke,  young 
man.  Ha  I  ha  I  You  are  anxious  to  leave  me, 
now  that  fortune  has  favored  you— or  is  it  per- 
haps that  some  modern  Venus  is  awaiting  you 
in  some  part  of  the  city  ?" 

There  was  a  slight  turn  of  sarcasm  in  this  and 
Herr  Von  Klingfeld  laughed  vigorously,  when 
he  finished  speaking. 

Francois  colored.  His  eyes  had  a  look  of 
anger  in  them,  and  for  a  moment  he  thought 
that  he  had  recognized  the  voice  of  the 
strange  man  in  black.  He  had  heard  it  before — 
somewhere.  He  was  sure  of  it.  But  no  I  he 
must  have  been  dreaming  and,  just  as  quickly 
as  the  thought  had  come  to  him,  he  banished  it 
again. 

"Well,"  Francois  went  on,  ''since  you  pre- 
sist  so,  I  will  play  a  little  longer.  But,  sir  I  it 
was  wrong  of  me  to  put  my  hand  in  this  sort  of 
a  game  at  all .     Go  on  !  shu£3e  the  cards. ' '     And 


FOR  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKE. 


131 


again  with  a  heavy  sigh,  Francois  Fotier 
dealt  the  cards,  while  the  strange  man  in  black 
eyed  him  furtively. 

Just  as  he  finished,  the  bell-boy  entered   with 
a  letter  for  Francois.     Eagerly    he  opened  the 
envelope  and  read  it.     It  was  a  note  from  Beatrice 
St.  George. 
My  Dear  Francois, 

Meet  me  to-night  at  8  o'clock  at  the  old  church 
near  the  city  park.  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 
This  afternoon  I  bade  farewell  to  my  home  on 
Champlain  street.  I  am  staying  at  Burke's. 
Dear  old  Constance  is  with  me.  Father  has  dis- 
owned me.     May  God  bless  you ! 

With  love,  your  own 

BEATRICE. 
A  merry  smile  stole  round  Francois'  curved 
lips,  and,  in  his  happiness,  he  djd  not  notice  the 
searching  look  the  strange  man  directed  on  the 
contents  of  that  mysterious  letter.  A  few  words 
alone  were  readable:— "Your  own  Beatrice"— 
and  they  wer«  plain  as  day  and,  when  Von 
Klingfeld  read  the  name,  his  eyes  sparkled,  the 
furrows  on  his  forehead  deepened,  and  a  look  of 
disappointment  crept  into  his  wild  face. 

"Pardon  me,  Von  Klingfeld,"  began  Fran- 
cois, "for  having  kept  you  waiting.  Whose 
play  is  it?"  "Yours,  partner,"  answered  the  un- 
easy Herr  Von,  from  Berlin. 


132 


FOR  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKE. 


i  i 


One  hour  passed.  Two!  three!  four! 
The  German  professor  was  in  excellent  spirits; 
he  swore  and  laughed  alternately.  But  not  so 
with  Francois  Fortier.  He,  poor  boy,  was  almost 
despairing,  for  his  losses  were  heavy  and  the  tell- 
tale was  clearly  stamped  on  his  clean-shaven 
countenance.  His  face  was  even  redder  now 
than  the  tie  that  shone  from  underneath  his 
coat.  It  seemed  as  if  almost  every  drop  of  blood 
in  hib  body  had  suddenly  run  to  his  head  to  stim- 
ulate his  brain  to  activity.  The  hour  had  arrived 
and  it  was  of  vital  moment  to  the  lonely,  troubled 
heart  of  poor  Francois.  What  was  he  to  do? 
All  the  money,  which  he  had  deposited  in  the 
bank — the  hard-earned  money,  which  some  day 
was  to  make  Beatrice  happy — nearly  all  of  it 
was  drifting  by  degrees,  into  the  gp'eedy  hands  of 
this  strange  ma^  in  black.  And  what  would 
Beatrice  say?  Oh  I  he  could  never  return  to  her, 
almost  penniless.  The  thought  of  it  nearly  par- 
alyzed him  and  he  raised  himself  up  in  his  chair 
and  his  brain  battled  with  a  lofty  and  a  mighty 
purpose. 

Just  then,  Harry  Sims,  the  wine-clerk  of  the 
Frontenac,  rose,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  Por- 
tier's  shoulder,  said:  "Old  boyi  take  a  friend's 
advice.  Quit  the  game,  for  it  will  cripple  you 
financially. ' ' 

"Let  me  play,"   interposed  Fortier,  "and  if  I 


FOR  I^VE'S  OWN  SAKE. 


133 


lose  all  I  have  in  the  world,  on  this  merciless 
black  devil!" 

A  spiteful  look  stole  over  Von  Klingfeld's  ugly, 
black  {ace.  The  door  closed— Harry  Sims  was 
gone,  and  now  the  two  men  were  alone. 

Just  then  a  card  fell  to  the  floor  and  Francois 
got  on  his  knees  to  look  for  it.  An  opportune 
moment  now  presented  itself  for  the  cowardly  act, 
and,  with  wonderful  rapidity.  Von  Klingfeld's 
fingers  dropped  a  white  powder  into  the  empty 
glass,  that  Francois  had  been  using,  as  he  said: 
"Well,  Francois,  while  you  are  looking  for  the 
card,  I  may  as  well  open  another  bottle.  1  sup- 
pose you  can  sUnd  another  champagne. ' '  Then 
the  strange  man  in  black  opened  another  bottle 
and  poured  the  foaming,  hissing  liquid  into  the 
glass  containing  the  poison,  and,  when  Fortier 
placed  the  last  card  on  the  table,  he  was  busy 
filling  his  own  glass.  Now  both  drank  heartily, 
and  a  devilish  look  of  triumph  was  visible  on 
Von  Klingfeld's  black  face;and,  under  his  breath, 
he  again  cursed  his  partner. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  Francois  Fortier  rose 
from  the  table,  for  a  strange,  numb  feeling  was 
creeping  into  every  muscle  of  his  whole  anatomy. 
Some  strange  force  was  overpowering  him,  and 
he  threw  his  cards  to  the  table  and  said: 
"Enough,  I  play  no  more.  Von  Klingfeld  count 
up  your  card!     How  much  do  I  owe  vou?" 


134 


FOR  lovk's  own  sakk. 


i  :    i: 


A  deep  silence  followed.  There  was  an  al- 
most superhuman  look  of  anguish  on  Portier'a 
troubled,  pale  face. 

"Only  a  small  matter, ' '  answered  the  elegantly 
dressed  German.  "Only  si":  hundred  dollars — 
which,  mark  you,  have  to  be  paid  by  to-morrow 
afternoon.     Are  you  prepared,  sir?" 

Herr  Von  Klingfeld  expected  strange  things 
would  happen,  and  little  did  he  dream  that 
Francois  Fortier  was  prepared  to  meet  his  de- 
mands and,  when  two,  trembling  fingers  pulled 
forth  a  blank  cheque  from  a  well-nigh  empty 
purse,  his  wild  eyes  looked  fiercer  and  stranger 
than  ever. 

"Six  hundred  dollars,"  stammered  forth 
Francois,  "it  is  just  the  amount  to  my  credit  in 
the  bank."  In  a  minute  the  cheque  was  filled 
out  and  in  the  hands  of  the  strange  man  in  black. 

"Well,  the  game  is  over,  and  you  are  the 
loser,  Francois.  Ha!  hal  cheer  up  I  "  broke 
forth  Von  Klingfeld  loudly,  "You  seem  heart- 
broken, but  don't  let  small  things  like  this 
trouble  you.  When  do  you  desire  reveng^e?" 
The  Professor's  loud,  unbearable  laugh  again 
sounded  through  the  smoke-filled  room,  and 
every  muscle  in  Francois'  body  trembled  strange- 
ly. 


"Revenge,    did 
"Never!  ne%'er!" 


you    say?"     questioned  he. 


^m. 


FOR  love's  own  sake. 


136 


"Good!  Then  this  day  brings  me  a  double 
victory,"  shouted  the  strange  man  ttiumphantly, 
but  little  did  Francois  dream  what  these  words 
meant.  With  a  sudden  turn  Francois  Fortier 
sprang  to  the  door,  like  a  pursued  hare.  There 
was  a  slight  noise  and  then  he  was  gone. 

A  few  minutes  passed  and  the  strange  man  in 
black  boarded  the  car,  bound  for  Sydenham 
street.  In  another  hour  he  was  in  Hotel  Lafay- 
ette and  entered  room  46.  A  moment  later,  the 
heavy  black  mustache  and  beard,  and  deep-col- 
ored glasses  fell  to  the  floor  and  the  man  was  no 
longer  Prof.  Herman  Von  Klingfeld— but  Count 
-Albertini — the  rival  of  Francois  Fortier,  for  the 
hand  of  Beatrice  St.  George. 

Albertini  was  restless,  and  hyena-like  paced 
the  floor  of  his  handsomel  "  furnished  room, 
while  he  cursed  and  swore,  by  all  that  was  holy, 
that  he  would  sooner  see  Francois  Fortier  dead 
than  married  to  Beatrice  St.  George.  And,  in  a 
maniacal  fit  of  excitement,  he  cried  out:  "Ah, 
Beatrice  St.  George,  I  will  yet  bend  your  haughty, 
young  head.  The  mortgage  scheme — false 
though  it  be — is  sure  to  work,  and  you  will 
marry  me  to  save  your  father  from  disgrace.  Hal 
Ha!  St.  George,  this  was  a  capital  idea  of  yours 
— this  mortgage  affair !  But,  should  the  scheme 
f^l  after  all,  what  then?  Ah,  then,  there  is  still 
hope;  there  is  something  that  will  not  fail.     The 


138 


FOR  LOVR'S  OWN  SAKE. 


poison— the  poison  will  work  and  to-morrow'ii 
sun  will  shine  upon  the  form  of  Beatrice's  lover 
in  some  lonely,  forsaken  street.  Bravol  Revenge 
— revenge  is  sweet!  But  v.  hat  if  the  poison 
should  not  take  effect?  Well,  then,  Portier  will 
do  away  with  himself.  The  thought  of  having  to 
return  to  Beatrice,  poorer  than  the  poorest  rag- 
man in  the  street,  will  overwhelm  him  in  his  dis- 
tress. He  can  never  again  face  the  girl  he  loves 
— neverl  Beatrice!  Beatrice  St.  George!  You 
shall  yet  be  mine — mine  in  body  and  soul!" 
And  again  the  Count  swore  desperately.  Then 
he  walked  to  his  desk.  A  letter  was  lying  there. 
He  opened  it  and  read  it.  It  was  from  the  office 
of  the  Hon.  Harvey  St.  George.  Count  Albert- 
ini's  eyes  eagerly  scanned  the  contents.  His 
face  turned  white,  his  jaws  chattered  and  again 
tk  fierce  volley  of  curses  rang  through  the  room, 
as  he  tore  the  letter  into  a  hundred  little  pieces. 
Then,  weak  and  exhausted,  he  sank  into  his 
chair,  his  fists  were  clenched  and  an  agonizidg 
cry  of  despair  filled  the  room.  "Too  late!  too 
late!"  he  groaned,  as  he  buried  his  miserable 
face  in  his  hands. 


I' I 


Chaptkk  III. 


The  clock  on  the  tower  of  the  little,  quaint 
church  near  the  park  had  just  struck  the  hour  of 
ten  and,  for  two  long  hours,  Beatrice  St.  George 
had  now  been  waiting  in  the  darkness  for  Fran- 
cois. And  still  he  did  not  come.  She  was  sure 
something  had  happened  and  her  poor  heart 
trembled  with  fear,  and  now  for  the  fifth  time  she 
entered  the  dear,  little  church,  and  knelt  in  front 
of  the  humble  statue  of  Our  Lady  above  which 
several  pale  lights  were  burning— clear  and  sus- 
pended in  the  darkness,  like  fiery  stars.  And 
again  her  fingers  waddered  sadly  over  her  cher- 
ished beads. 

Shortly  afterwards,  there  were  footsteps  on  the 
pavement;  the  distant  sound  became  clearer  and 
clearer,  and,  presently,  a  staggering  man  passed 
the  little  church.  It  was  Francois.  His  face 
was  pale,  his  lips  were  bloodless,  and  he  was  rav- 
ing in  a  mad  delirium.  The  drug  was  doing  its 
deadly  work. 

"Beatr;   ;!     Beatrice!"    he  cried  out  sorrow- 
fully, bv.  ine  gentle  breeze,  blowing  through  the 
lonely  avenue  of  maplv-«  alone  made  answer.    On 
he  stumbled,  into  the  park  near  by,  little  know- 
CIS?) 


laa 


POR  I.OVK'S  OWN  SAKF. 


ing  whither  he  wa:*  going.  The  whole  earth  was 
swimming  before  his  eyes  and  he  was  hurrying 
on  blindly  and  his  mind  was  being  tossed  about 
madly  by  merciless  winds  of  thought.  Poor, 
poor  man  I  He  was  unconscious  of  everything 
about  him  and  on  he  ran,  muttering  inaudible 
words  to  the  spectral  night  that  lay  over  the  city 
like  some  evil,  broodjng  spirit— dark  and  un- 
fathomable. 

Presently  a  woman  descended  the  steps  of  the 
old  church,  and,  wrapping  her  warm  woolen 
shawl  about  her,  halted  on  the  pavement  and 
listened  eagerly  for  a  moment.  It  was  Beatrice. 
The  winds  were  now  beginning  to  settle  and  the 
night  was  getting  brighter,  for  through  a  dark 
mass  of  clouds,  the  moon  was  peeping  serenely 
and,  presently,  she  burst  forth  in  all  her  splendor, 
flooding  the  whole  city  with  her  sombre  gleams 
of  silver  light.  Beatrice  was  happy,  for  a  new 
hope  had  suddenly  risen  on  the  darkened  border 
of  her  wild  despair,  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  some 
white  object  on  the  pavement  directly  ahead  of 
her.  In  a  minute  she  was  there  and  picked  it 
up.  It  was  a  handkerchief,  and,  on  raising  it  to 
the  light,  she  read  upon  it  the  name  of  Francois 
Fortier.  Her  blood  almost  stood  still  in  her 
veins;  a  feeling  of  weakness  came  upon  her,  as 
she  stood  there  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  moon  and  the  glorious,  blue  sky,  gemmed 
with  fiery  stars. 


FOR  love's  own  sakr. 


l.'K 


There  was  an  almost  wild  look  of  suffering  on 
her  face  as  she  hastened  through  the  park,  her 
little  beads  dangling  down  at  her  side  and  her 
bloodless  lips,  tuned  to  some  sweet  prayer. 

Francois  Fortier  was  now  wandering  through 
the  dense  willow  groves  in  the  park,  near  the 
banks  of  the  foaming  and  splashing  waters,  that 
thundered  loudly  into  the  bright  moonlight 
around. 

"The  sea  was  all  a  boiling,  seething  froth, 
And  God  Almighty's  guns  were  going  off 

And  the  land  trembled ' ' 

but  Francois  heard  and  .saw  nothing.  He  was 
now  walking  along  the  verj-  edge  of  the  bank 
and,  had  not  the  strong  arm  of  a  woman  pulled 
him  back,  he  would  have  stumbled  into  that 
deep,  hissing,  wild  abyss  of  angry  water  below. 
Just  then  the  moon  peered  through  the  willows, 
and  one  could  see  the  pale  face  of  the  frightened 
woman.     It  was  Beatrice. 

"OGodI  'tis  Francois,"  she  exclaimed  as  fresh 
tears  trickled  into  her  sunless  eyes.  "But  how 
strange  he  looks!  Speak!  Speak  Francois!  'Tis 
Beatrice  who  calls  thee. " 

But  not  a  word  passed  his  trembling  lips.  His 
tired,  blood-shot  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  to  the 
woman's  face.  He  sighed  deeply,  but  that  was 
all,  and  mechanically  Beatrice  led  him  to  a  bench 
near  by,  and  sitting  him  down,  held  his  droop- 


140 


FOR  LOVK'S  OWN  SAKE. 


'■V 


ing  head  in  her  strong  amis.  And  slowly  his  eyes 
closed,  while  he  drifted  into  a  sound,  healthful 
sleep,  which  lasted  some  hours.  The  warm  rose 
color  gradually  returned  to  his  cheeks;  his  face 
was  getting  brighter,  and,  when  he  opened  his 
eyes  again,  Beatrice's  heart  gave  one  wild  throb 
of  joy.  At  first  he  seemed  dazed,  but,  when  his 
eyes  wandered  to  that  dear  face,  bending  over 
him,  hesaid:  "Ah,  Beatrice,  it  is  you;  how  good 
of  you!"  Then  he  told  her  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened in  that  smoke-filled  room  at  the  Hotel 
Frontenac;  but  she  only  smiled,  and,  raising 
herself  proudly,  placed  her  hand  on  his  young 
shoulder  and  said,  somewhat  softly:  "Is  that 
all?  Ah!  what  is  money,  after  all?  Francois 
you  have  brains  and  an  honest  heart,  and  I — I 
have  two  strong  arms,  that  can  work  for  Life's 
bitter  crust  of  bread.  Let  the  past  take  care  of 
itself!  There  is  a  futtjre  awaiting  us,  in  which 
we  may  yet  taste  the  sweets  of  a  new-born 
happiness." 

Francois  Fortier  raised  his  fresh,  young  face 
tohersand,  trembling  with  emotion,  said:  "Beat- 
rice, I  will  throw  all  my  wasted  years  behind  me 
and,  by  the  grace  of  God,  from  this  night  on,  I 
will  live  a  better  and  a  purer  life.  To-morrow  I 
will  call  in  to  see  good  Father  Stanislaus  for  I 
feel,  that  this  night,  my  soul  has  been  saved 
from  deep  ruin.     To  Thy  far-seeing  guidance,  O 


FOR  love's  own  sake. 


141 


heavenly  Father,  I  now  commit  my  future." 
Then  his  voice  grew  hoarse,  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  ruddy  cheeks  and  there  was  an  expres- 
.sion  of  sadness  on  his  young  and  handsome  face 
as  he  said: 

"Ah!  who  am  I  that  God  hath  saved 

Me  from  the  doom,  I  did  desire, 
And  crossed  the  lot  myself  had  craved. 

To  let  me  higher? 
What  have  I  done  that  He  should  bow 

From  Heaven  to  choose  a  wife  for  me? 
And  what  deserved,  he  should  endow, 

My  home  with  THEE." 
Then  he  took  Beatrice's  warm  hand  in  his 
own,  and  there  was  a  look  of  determination  in 
his  sparkling  eyes  as  he  said,  somewhat  sad- 
ly: "Forgive  me,  Beatrice,  for  my  wayward- 
ness! This  week  I  will  make  a  general  confes- 
sion, and  I  will  seek  the  Saviour,  in  his  tabern- 
acle, from  Whom  I  have  been  estranged  so  many 
years.  I  swear  it!"  And  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  blue  sky  above  him  and  piously  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

It  had  been  a  happy  night  for  Beatrice  after 
all,  and,  as  they  paseed  the  little  church  again, 
she  could  not  help  repeating  to  herself  the  poet's 
tender  lines: — 

"Manlike  is  it  to  fall  into  sin. 
Fiendlike  is  it  to  dwell  therein; 


r= 


142 


FOR  LOVE'S  OWN  SAKE. 


Christlike  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
Godlike  is  it  all  sin  to  leave." 

Then  her  lips  moved  and  an  angel  in  heaven 
recorded  another  prayer  of  thanksgiving  from  a 
grateful,  noble  heart. 

The  next  evening  Francois  Fortier  knelt  in 
the  confessional,  and  good  old  Father  Stanislaus, 
spoke  tenderly  to  him.  "The  sacred  blood  of 
Jesus,"  he  said,  "will  wash  out  all  the  stains 
that  sin  has  made  upbn  your  soul.  It  was  on 
Calvary's  Cross  that  a  merciful  Saviour  suffered 
for  just  such  sins  as  yours,  dear  child.  The  good 
Lord  is  always  pleased  to  welcome  back  his  err- 
ing children.  He  is  a  kind  and  merciful  Father 
and,  ag^in,  he  speaks  his  ivords  of  love  and  sym- 
pathy to  you,  dear  child: — "Come  unto  Me, 
all  you,  who  ate  weary  and  sorrow-laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest."  Kneel  my  son,  with 
penitent  heart,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Cross  of 
Calvary,  and  He  will  forgive  you.  Bury  your 
Past  here  to-night  in  this  confessional,  and  face 
the  morning  of  your  rosy  future,  with  new  am- 
bitions, new  hopes  and  a  pure  heart.  God  bless 
youl     Remember  me  in  your  prayers,  my  son!" 

That  evening  as  Francois  knelt  in  the  light  of 
the  lamp  of  the  sanctuary  there  were  tears  of  joy 
on  his  blushing  cheeks,  while  his  lips  whisper- 
ed to  his  grateful  soul:  "Oh!  what  a  weight  is 
lifted  from  my  heart!     Oh!  I  am  so  happy!" 


FOK  I.OV8  S  OWN  SAKE. 


143 


Two  weeks  later,  the  bells  of  the  old  Francis- 
can church  rang  out  their  silver  p^als  of  glad- 
ness over  the  sunny,  thatched  roofs  of  the  city. 
That  morning  Beatrice  St.  George  and  Francois 
Fortier  were  married  by  the  gentlehearted  Father 
Stanislaus. 

Fifteen  years  have  passed  since  that  happy 
day.  Francois  Fortier,  just  in  the  prime  of  life, 
is  now  the  proprietor  of  one  of  the  largest  man- 
ufacturing concerns  in  New  York  city  and  never, 
since  that  memorable  night  in  the  Hotel  Fron- 
tenac,  has  he  held  a  card  in  his  hand  again. 

Mrs.  Fortier  is  as  happy  as  a  lark  in  her  home 
on  West  Sixteenth  Street.  Her  two  children, 
a  boy  and  a  girl,  are  all  in  all  to  her,  and  she  is 
never  so  happy,  as  when  in  the  presence  of  her 
darlings.  The  only  sorrows,  that,  darken  her 
bright  fyture,  are  thoughts  of  her  dear  father,  in 
that  far-off  Canadian  city.  In  all  these  fifteen 
years,  she  has  never  neglected  writing  him — ^but 
never  a  line  comes  back  to  cheer  her  longing  and 
troubled  heart. 

Christmas  was  drawing  near,  and  one  evening 
she  said  to  her  husband,  '  'Francois,  will  you  do 
me  a  favor?' ' 

"Certainly,  dear.     I  will  be  only  too  happy." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  make  a  novenal  Offer  up 

your  prayers  for  my  intention  I  I  cannot  tell  you 


144 


FOk  LOVK  S  OWN  SAKB. 


;  1"  jf 


w 

ft 
I   h 

%' 
iSii 


1l 


what  it  is  at  present  but,  some  day,  you  sliall 
know,  dear — some  day!" 

The  nine  days  ended  on  Christmas  morning, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fortier  both  received  Holy 
Communion,  while  the  air  was  ringing  with 
jubilant  glorias  of  praise. 

On  their  return  from  Mass,  Mrs.  St.  George 
found  several  letters  in  the  Christmas  mail.  One 
of  them  bore  a  Canadian  postmark  and,  .some- 
what nervously,  she  opened  it  first.  Imagine 
her  surprise  when  she  read  the  following: 
My  own  de?r  child! 

Forgive  your  poor  father  for  all  his  coldness  of 
heart.  Fifteen  long  years  have  passed,  since 
last  I  saw  your  dear  face  and,  in  all  these  fifteen 
years,  I  have  been  so  unhappy.  Dear  Beatrice, 
I  received  all  your  many  kind,  affectionate  letters 
and  often  I  wept  for  hours  after  I  had  read  them, 
and  when  I  tried  to  answer  them,  I  could  not 
write  a  single  line.  The  cruel  and  relentless 
father  that  I  had  been,  I  felt  unworth/  even  to 
write  a  single  word  to  you.  I  know  that  I  treat- 
ed you  shamefully,  nay,  disgracefully,  Beatrice, 
but  oh!  it  was  my  pride  and  my  bad  temper  that 
drove  me  to  it  all.  Now,  I  realize,  when  it  is 
too  late,  how  sinful  it  was  of  me.  Count  Albert- 
ini  is  dead.  Shortly,  after  your  marriage,  he  re- 
turned to  Italy  and,  several  months  later,  I  read 
of  his  having  been  murdered  in  a  gambling  den 


FOR  LOVR'S  OWN  SAK8. 


145 


m  Naples.  Thus  ended  this  miserable  man 
who  brought  into  this  world  the  bitter  cross 
apon  which  the  last  fifteen  yea«  of  l  y  life  have 
been  crucified.  Forgive  me,  dear  child!  For- 
give me.  Francois-fc>r  God  knows  I  have  suffer- 
ed  enough I 

And  now,  my  dear  children.  I  must  tell  you 
something,  which  no  doubt  will  surprise  you 
and  I  am  sure  you  will  be  delighted.     Yesterday 
morning  at  eight  o'clock,  I  was  baptized  a  Cath- 
olic by  Father  Stanislaus,  in  the  very  church 
you  were  married  in  just  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
this  morning,  I  received  my  first  Holy  Com' 
munion.      Constance  Burke  knelt  at  my  side. 
Oh!  rejoice  with  me.  for  this  has  been  the  hap- 
piest  day  in  all  my  life.     This,  then,  is  my 
Chnstmas  surprise  for  you-but  there  is  still 
another  ,n  store.      To-night  I  leave  for  New 
York.     I  am  coming  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
my  days  with  you  and  the  children.      Father 
Stanislaus  and  good  old  Constance  Burke  accom- 
pany me,    and  they  will  spend  their  holidays 
wfth  you.    Again,  then,   dear  children.  I  en- 
treat yon,  forgive  and  forget! 

Your  penitent  father, 

HARVEY  ST.  GEORGE. 
When  Mrs.  Fortier  finished  reading  the  letter 
she  cned  out  gladly,  while  teats  of  joy  were  toll ' 
ing  down  her  sott  cheeks:     "O  God  be  praised! 


146 


FOR  LOVE'S  OWN  SAKE. 


The  prayer  is  answered.  Oh  I  my  heart  breaks 
with  joyi  ReadI  Francois,  readl"  and  she 
handed  him  the  letter. 

And,  together  they  stood  on  that  bright  Christ- 
mas morning,  under  the  beautifully  moulded 
arches  of  the  drawing  room,  decorated  with  holly 
and  mistletoe— their  lives  turned  to  a  new  joy, 
and  their  eyes,  gazing,  far  beyond  the  frosty 
gates  of  the  morning,  into  the  golden  mist  of  the 
future.  1 


% 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIQHT-WINDS. 

The  shades  of  night — dark  and  gloomy — had 
fallen  upon  a  peaceful  Canadian  city.  In  its  de- 
serted streets  the  wild  November  winds  were  tear- 
ing madly  through  the  naked  willows.  Nature 
was  singing  her  saddest  songs.  The  old  Profes- 
sor's face  bore  a  few  lines  of  care,  as  he  sat  in 
his  cheerful  little  study,  while  the  cold,  drizzling 
rain  was  beating  a  soft  tattoo  upon  the  window- 
pane,  adding  a  tone  of  pity  to  the  otherwise  soli- 
tary moan  of  Autumn. 

I  could  not  help  admiring  the  kind,  old,  gray- 
haired  man  hciore  me.  His  face  was  one  that 
always  inspired  me  with  kindlier  thoughts. 
There  was  a  wealth  of  sweetness  in  his  smile, 
and  in  his  eyes  one  could  see  the  reflection  of  the 
true,  pure  soul  within.  He  was  advanced  in  the 
seventies— this  noble  old  oak  that  had  withstood 
the  blasts  of  many  winters.  His  form  was  erect 
and  his  step  firm,  but  he  still  loved  to  meet  the 
boys— "his"  boys  he  called  them— at  his  daily 
classes  in  University  Hall.  He  was  active  and 
studious,  notwithstanding  his  years.  Often,  yes, 
very  often,  we  could  see  a  dim,  pale  light  in  the 
Professor's  study,  and  the  old,  gray-haired  man 
(147) 


148 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT-WINDS. 


!  •• 


! 


ii;;; 


bending  over  his  books,  long  after  the  lonely 
midnight  bad  extinguished  her  starry  lamps  in 
the  heavens. 

On  this  particular  night  I  )ust  happened  to 
drop  in  on  the  Professor,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  him  in  a  depressed  and  melancholy  mood, 
for  he,  of  all  mortals,  appeared  to  possess  the 
sunniest  and  brightest  of  dispositions.  He  was 
sitting  in  his  quaint  old  armchair  and  when  I  en- 
tered his  face  brightened,  but  it  was  only  for  a 
moment.  < 

The  fire  in  the  grate  was  burning  low,  and  the 
sparks,  glowing  with  light,  leaped  and  died 
away,  like  the  sunbeams  of  a  departing  day. 
Suddenly  he  raised  himself  in  his  chair,  and,  in 
a  tone  of  sweetness,  said  to  me:  "Do  you  hear 
the  plaintive  strains  the  winds  are  singing  to- 
night? They  make  me  sad,  and  well  they  may. 
This  is  the  month  of  the  poor  souls,  and,  do  you 
know,  I  have  been  sitting  here  for  several  hours 
saying  my  beads,  for,  in  the  voices  of  these  lone- 
ly November-winds,  I  seem  to  hear  nothing  but 
the  cries  and  pleadings  of  those  suffering  ones, 
those  prisoners  of  the  Christ-King,  who  thiist 
for  the  sunshine  of  God's  pure  smile." 

Then  he  turned  slightly,  and  there  was  a  mo- 
mentary pause.  I  looked  up  at  him,  and  in  his 
eye  a  tear  glistened.  Glancing  about  the  room, 
at  the  shelves  that  held  volumes  and  volumes  of 


A  VOICE  IN  THK  NIGHT-WINDS. 


140 


history  and  literature,  he  exclaimed— and  his 
voice  had  a  tone  of  pity  in  it:  "Ah,  ray  booksl 
Cherished  and  silent  friendsl  You  beckon  me 
in  vain.  Often  you  cheered  me  in  ray  weary 
hours,  but  to-night  you  cannot  win  my  spirits." 
The  old  Professor  then  rose  and  stirred  the  fii« 
in  the  grate.  The  rain  was  still  falling  and  the 
winds  were  still  chanting  their  weary  monotones. 
He  iwused  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  listened,  while  a  smile  brightened  his  coun- 
tenance. I  was  rude  enough  to  ask  the  meaning 
of  the  smile,  and  he  murmured  softly:  "I  only 
looked  down  the  pathway  of  the  years,  and  I 
heard  the  songs  of  my  youth  vibrate  through  the 
lonely  corridors  of  Time— and  I  was  happy. 
That  is  all." 

Then  sinking  into    the    old  armchair,    and 
opening  an  old  diary  that  lay  upon  the  table,  he 
read  the  following  tender  lines: 
'  'When  night  has  come  and  all  the  world  is  stilL 
And  sweet  the  shadows  dance  about  at  will 
And  chase  each  other  round  the  old,  old  room, 
Where  oft  I  sit  in  silence  and  in  gloom, 
'Tis  then  my  thoughts,  by  music  borne  along, 
Awake  the  echoes  of  my  youthful  song. 
That  lingers  soft  entrancing  and  reveals 
The  wealth  of  joy  that  the  dead  Past  conceals— 
And  on  the  wings  of  Mem'ry  long  it  sways 
That  joyful  peal— the  song  of  childhood's  days. " 


150 


A  VOICK  IN  THK  NIOHT-WINDS. 


Nervously  his  fingers  turned  over  a  few  p*ge>, 
and  his  mellow  voice  again  filled  the  room,  as  he 
slowly  read: 

' ' My  thoughts  do  sigh  and  leap  far  o'er  the  brink 
Of  misty  years.     In  vain  sad  tears  conceal 
The  noble  face,  that  smiled  upon  my  way 
And  cheered  me  on.    Yet,  O  that  moumfnl  day, 
When  last  I  saw  its  sweet  smile  fade  and  steal— ^ 
My  heart  was  crushed— dark  clouds  spread  over- 
head; 
I  stood  alone  and  wep^;  a  friend  lay  dead." 

When  he  had  finished,  he  closed  the  book, 
and  long  he  gazed  upon  a  little  picture  in  front 
of  him,  and  murmured:  "Ah!  that  noble  &cel 
My  mother's!  In  memory  it  is  dear  to  me  still, 
with  its  look,  so  bright  and  tender,  so  noble  and 
consoling.  The  soft,  sweet  smile  that  kissed  her 
silver  locks  glows  just  as  brightly  as  in  the  long 
ago;  it  lingers  o'er  my  pathway  j^et  and  lures  me 
on.  The  snow-white  locks,  the  wrinkled  brow, 
the  tender  eyes — ^the  homes  of  love  and  pity — 
ah  I  can  I  ever  forget  them?  Can  I  ever  forget 
how,  in  the  summers  of  my  childhood,  she  caress- 
ed and  fondled  me  in  her  loving  arms  and  kiss- 
ed my  tears  away?  'Tis  !  ig  since  then,  my 
child,  and  now  she,  too,  sleeps  sweetly  in  her 
grave.  In  Spring  the  violets-  bend  their  little, 
blue  heads  to  kiss  her  breast  and  the  birds  softly 
sing  their  gentle  requiems.     Do  you  know,  my 


A  VOICK  IN  THR  NIGHT-WINDS. 


151 


boy,  I  hear  my  mother's  voice  in  these  pleading, 
sobbing,  November  vinds.  She  is  calling  me, 
and  I  feel  that  these  pleasant  haunts  will  not 
claim  me  much  longer  and  death  to  me  soon  will 
be  doubly  sweet. " 

I  tried  to  steer  the  dear  old  man's  thonght'- 
into  pleasanter  channels,  and,  in  a  measure  at 
least,  succeeded.  He  spoke  of  his  early  days  at 
college,  its  joys,  its  hopes,  its  disappointments. 
His  eloquence  stirred  my  heart  to  nobler  purpos- 
es, nobler  thoughts.  He  recounted  his  days  at  the 
University,  and  reviewed  the  motley  company  of 
young  men  that  had  pased  out  of  its  sacred  portals 
into  the  vast  arena  of  life.  Then  his  thoughts 
stole  back  to  the  days  of  his  childhocid.  His  thin, 
pale  fingers  still  held  fast  the  cherished  beads.  In 
his  eyes  the  tears  glistened,  and  on  his  lips  there 
waji  the  motion  of  a  prayer.  'Cherish  the  tradi- 
tions and  teachings  of  your  childhood's  days, ' '  he 
said  to  me.  '  'They  hold  for  you,  my  boy,  an  end- 
less boon  of  joy.  What  memories  cluster  -  .und 
the  happy  scenes  of  child  life!  Memories  »  pure 
and  sweet,  whose  sacred  voices  will  echo  through 
the  silence  of  past  golden  years  and  bring  yon 
joy  when  life's  last  shades  are  gathering.  My 
mind  is  filled  with  thoughts  like  these,  and  my 
dear  mother  is  the  burden  of  them  all.  She  it 
was  who  fashioned  my  career  and  made  my  early 
life  so  pleasant  and  profitable.     She  it  was  who 


'i 

1 

H 

m 

N 

I 

1 

!!■ 

P 

in 


162 


A  VOICK  IN  THK  MOHT-WINIM. 


often  told  my  youthful  heart  thase  fond,  sweet 
stories  which  ever  delight  children — tales  of 
fairies  and  their  princely  castles,  tales  of  heroes 
and  warriors  of  a  bygone  day.  Some  of  them 
are  forgotten,  but  one  still  clings  to  the  memory 
of  scenes  in  childhood's  sunny  da>-s.  Its  most 
cherished  frejments  still  remain.  Listen,  then, 
my  boy,  to  this  sweet  and  tender  tale." 

The  kind  Professor  settled  himself  into  a  more 
comfortable  position,  and  then  began: 

"Many,  many  year^  ago,  among  the  sunny, 
vine-clad  hills  of  Prance,  there  dwelt  an  organ- 
builder — Pierre  by  name.  He  was  young  and 
handsome — as  fair  a  picture  as  the  heart  of 
woman  could  desire — manly  in  form,  though 
young  in  face,  with  dark-brown,  ItistTQus  eyes 
and  a  pale,  creamy  complexion  which  intensified 
the  roses  on  his  cheeks.  Then,  too,  there  was 
the  expression  of  a  wealth  of  tenderness  in  his 
smile  that  ever  lingered  upon  hb  noble  features. 
All  in  all,  his  face  was  a  picture  of  honesty;  kind- 
ness, too,  shone  forth  in  the  twinkle  of  his  eye, 
and^  many  a  poor  one  forgot  not  to  mention  the 
name  of  Pierre  in  his  evening  prayers. 

"Pierre  had  built  many  organs  of  the  sweetest 
tone  and  the  finest  workmanship.  His  last  effort, 
however,  surpassed  all  expectations,  and  when 
the  organ  was  finished,  Pierre's  handsome  &ce 
glowed  with  joy,  and,   bending  his  knees,   he 


A  VOICK  IS  THR  NIOHT-WINDS.  183 

raised  his  .pint  in  prayer  to  Heaven  in  thanks, 
giving  to  God. 

f-thi.*  ^"^^^  T  ^'"*  '••'*  •*»"  '*''  without 
Sl^dertH""",'"'''  i"  *"•  '«*-v«nent  Father 
^1^  .'u"™'"'  f^'yh'i^d  priest  and 
Pedagogneof  the  village,  had  been  to  him  father 
and  constant  friend.     He  loved  the  good  prie^ 

«.ntly  father,  he  placed  the  wonderful  organ  he 
had  ,ust  fi„«hed  in  the  village  church.  The 
p*ople  from  far  and  near  came  to  see  the  young 
organ-builder's  wonderful  masterpiece 

"Whenever  the  church  bell  announced  a  wedd 
ing  and  the  happy  bride  entered  the  church  the 

organmthe  old  choir  loft  would  of  its  own  ac^ 

U  seemed  as  if  unseen  fingers  had  stirred  the  cold 
Jvoty  keys  to  music;  so  sweet  was  it,  that  it 
sounded  like  the  song,  of  angels-.„  ^.o t,m 
another  world. 

"The  peasants  of  the  village  were  surprised 

they  could  not.  The  music.  like  a  breath  from 
Heaven^  had  stolen  over  them,  and  they  knelt 
thereabsorbedinrapture.    No  one  could  explain 

to  Z"„"i?  T^  "f  ^"^"'  """^  ''«^°'"  ^ito« 
to  the  old  stone  church  on  the  hill  was  Lucille, 


154 


A  VOICK  IN  THE  NIGHT-WINDS. 


the  only  child  of  Francois  Lablanc,  a  poor  and 
humble  planter.  The  suns  of  twenty  summers 
had  warmed  the  roses  in  her  cheek,  and  her  soft 
brown  hair  hung  in  tresses  over  her  comely 
shoulders.  She  was  a  modest  maiden ,  and  many 
were  the  admiring  eyes  riveted  upon  her  as  she 
knelt  absorbed  in  prayer,  at  Mass  on  Sundays. 
Her  serene  expression  resembled  that  of  the  gen- 
tle Madonna.  None  loved  her  more  than  Pierre. 
They  had  been  playmates  from  childhood,  and, 
when  Father  Felicien  announced  that  Pierre  and 
Lucille  were  to  be  married,  no  one  was  surprised 
and  all  rejoiced. 

'  'The  wedding  day  arrived  in  due  time.  When 
Pierre  led  his  bride  across  the  threshold  of  the 
old  gray  church,  his  heart  throbbed  wildly  in  its 
beats  of  pride  and  ambition.  An  awful  change 
had  taken  place  in  the  heart  of  our  hero.  He 
little  thought  of  his  bride — much  less  of  his  God. 
His  one  absorbing  idea  was  Am  own  greatness. 
His  mind  dwelt  upon  his  wonderful  organ  and 
on  the  praise  people  would  bestow  upon  him, 
when  it  would  play  again  of  its  own  accord  upon 
/^Mr  entry  into  the  church.  Such  then  wei  'lis 
thoughts  as  he  passed  into  the  village  church 
with  Lucille. 

"They  advanced  slowly — but  alas  I  the  organ 
was  as  silent  as  the  tomb;  not  a  sound  of  music 
stirred  the  air.      Pierre's  heart  sank,  for  be 


A  VOICK  IN  THE  NIGHT-WINDS. 


156 


thought  in  his  own  base  pride,  that  it  was  an 
omen— a  message  sent  from  Heavento  warn  him 
of  some  fault  or  shortcoming  in  his  beloved 
Lucille— she  who  was  so  good,  so  noble,  so  pure. 
Could  she,  then,  have  been  false  to  him,  the  girl 
he  knew  as  a  child,  whom  he  loved  as  a  woman? 
Was  she  to  seal  the  marriage  ceremony  with  a 
treacherous  lie? 

"The  whole  day  passed  and  not  a  word  did 
Pierre  speak  to  his  innocent  bride  and  when 
night  threw  her  dusky  mantle  over  the  sleeping 
village,  he  secretly  stole  away  through  his  open 
window,  and,  in  his  heart,  bade  good-bye  to 
Lucille  forever.     Forever,  did  I  say? 

"He  wandered  on  and  on,  from  town  to  town, 
over  hills  and  over  plains,  unnoticed  and  un- 
known.     Finally  he  reached  a  new    country 
where  he  settled,  a  stranger  amongst  strangers. 
For  fifteen  years  he  dwelt  there,  and  miserable 
years  they  were.     His  was  no  longer  the  ruddy 
face  of  youth;  wrinkles  of  pain  and  despair  had 
driven  away  his  sunny  smile.     One  day  his 
heart  was  breaking  with  longing  for  the  home  of 
his  childhood  and  his  abandoned  wife.     He  re- 
membered  how  good  and  pious  Ludlle  had  been 
—a  veritable  lily  of  France— and  he,  how  base 
suspecting  and  false.     He  tried  to  banish  thea^ 
thoughts,  but  alasl  the  longing  desire  would  not 
be  appeased.     Was  he  then,  going  mad?    His 


156 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT-WINDS. 


^:f! 


very  thoughts  seemed  to  eat  into  his  heart's  flesh 
and  leave  their  wounds  bleeding  "there. 

"At  last  he  decided  to  return  and  beg  forgive- 
ness. By  day  and  night  he  journeyed  towards 
the  home  of  his  youth;  the  nearer  he  approached 
the  stronger  grew  his  longing  and  the  deeper  his 
anxiety.  And  Lucille?  Would  she  ever  be  able 
to  forgive  him— to  forget  all?  He  had  traveled 
for  months,  and  his  joufney  was  now  nearing  its 
end.  One  morning  he  saw  in  the  distance  the 
tower  of  the  village  church  rising  from  the  sun- 
kissed  horizon;  the  cross-tipped  spire  was  golden 
in  the  sunlight.  His  heart  beat  wildly  within 
him.  Did  the  cross  that  had  so  often  smiled  up- 
on him  in  the  long  ago  again  inspire  hope,  that 
he  sped  on  so  eagerly  with  renewed  strength  and 
vigor? 

"The  peasants  were  just  on  the  way  to  the 
vineyards  for  their  daily  work.  He  passed  them 
by  in  silence;  no  one  recognized  him-  he  was  so 
changed.  A  few  spoke,  in  an  undertone,  words 
which  Pierre  could  not  understand.  One  in  pass- 
ing said  to  a  companion,  'He  is  either  a  thief  or 
a  fool.' 

■ 

"When  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  city  he  was 
panting  for  breath.  His  whole  frame  was  trem- 
bling like  an  aspen  leaf  in  a  thunder-storm.  A 
funeral  procession  was  slowly  coming  down  the 
street,    and  a  crowd  of  people,  young  and  old. 


I  ':U 


A  VOICK  IN  THK  NIOHT-WINUS.  167 

were  bringing  up  the  rear.     Nearer  and  nearer 

wT'    ,   f »  °  ""^  «««ni«  in  him  the  long- 
ost  P,«Te?  All  passed  him  by  and  none  deign«i 

1  *^~  .  ^^^  procession  was  moving  on— 
the  coffin  borne  by  loving  hands,  covered  with 
wreaths  of  beautiful  flowers,  was  accompanied 
by  a  crowd  of  weeping  villagers. 

"Pi«Te  could  resist  no  longer  and,  in  a  scarce- 
ly audible  tone,  muttered:     'Whom,  good  peo- 
ple, do  you  bury  that  you  weep  so?'    An  old 
gray-haired  woman  heard  and  answered-    'Ah! 
U  IS  the  wife  of  the  organ-builder;  the  wicked 
man  left  her  fifteen  years  ago;  she  was  so  good 
and  k.nd  to  everyone.      The  poor,  dear  Lu 
How  we  shaU  mrss  her!    Sh.  was  a  mother  to 
tte  poor  children  of  the  village.     Seel  how  their 
tears  are  falling  in  gratitude.     They  say  her  cross 
was  hard  to  bear,    but  she  bore  it  patiendy 
«iough  God  knowsl    And  now  they  are  taking 
her  to  the  little  church  on  the  hill,  in  which 
they  will  buo- her.' 

"LuciUel  mypoorLucillel— DeadI  My  God  I 
Have  I—'  It  was  a  piercing  cry.  Pierre  had 
spoken  and  now  he  stood  speechless.  His  face 
was  white  with  horror,  his  bitter  tears  fell  fast 
A  moment  later  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the 
coffin  and  joined  the  mourning  throng;  there  his 
sobs  and  sighs  passed  unnoticed  for  all  wen 
weeping. 


168 


A  VOICE  IN  THK  NIGHT-WINDS. 


■'<r 


"The  procession  had  now  reached  its  destina- 
tion and,  when  the  pall-bearers  had  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  church,  the  organ  in  the  choir- 
loft  began,  of  its  own  accord  to  play  again — 
sweeter  than  it  had  ewr  played  before,  sweeter 
than  an  organ  was  ever  known  to  play. 

"All  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  Old  men  and 
women,  fathers,  mothers,  children — all  wept. 
The  coflSn  was  placed  ^fore  the  altar.  The  or- 
gan's voice  now  rose  and  fell  in  notes  alternately 
of  joy  and  of  regret.  All  ears  listened.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  heavens  had  opened  and  the  voices  of 
the  angels  had  united  in  strains  of  forgiveness — 
so  wonderfully  sweet  was  the  music. 

"Pierre  clung  fast  to  the  pillar  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar.  He  was  weak.  The  journev  of  weeks 
had  wearied  him.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and, 
upon  his  lips,  there  moved  the  message  of  a  pray- 
si.  Yet  he  was  not  sad;  his  face  bore  a  look  of 
joy,  for  he  knew  by  the  voice  of  the  pealing  or- 
gan— he  had  heard  the  song  and  understood  all 
— that  God  had  forgiven  him.  And,  when  the 
last,  soft,  sweet  note  of  that  song  of  forgiveness 
had  died  away,  Pierre  reeled,  staggered,  and  fell 
on  the  stony  pavement — dead. 

"Then  Father  Felicien  softly  folded  Pierre's 
hands  on  his  breast.  The  enchanted  organ  played 
a  slow  and  tender  requiem  aetemam  and  grad- 
ually the  sweet,  pure  notes  died  away  iittatiie 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT-WINDS.  159 

plaintive  tones  of  a  dies  ir<u.     Then  the  organ 
stopped  and  its  voice  was  hushed  forever  " 

.^„I?'•  1^  ^""^^  ^""^  ~°^  *°  '»"«=  «d  of  his 

S'"?  "^  '^\''°"'=  ^'^^  *«  hour  of  mid- 
night.    I  was  loth  to  go;  for.  I  knew  that  I  was 
m  the  presence  of  a  good  and  noble  man-' 'a 
palace  of  sight  and  sound."    as  Emerson  once 
wrote,     carrying  in  his  senses  the  morning  and 
themght.  and  the  unfathomable  galaxy;  in  his 
brain  the  geometry  of  the  city  of  God;  in  his 
heart  the  power  of  love  and  the  realms  of  rieht 
and  wrong. "     When  he  bade  me  farewell  at  the 
door  the  ram  was  still  falling;  the  sighing  No- 
vember winds  still  spoke  in-pleading  voices 
Again  he  listened,  and  a  strange,  glad  light  crepi 
into  his  anxious  eyes. 

thJ^I"^"*^/""""^  ''"«'"  and  clear,  with 
the  twittenng  of  sparrows  in  the  lonely  wiUows 

r.^^  °^  ^  P**°*^  *«  ««st«^  horizon 
and  the  rising  sun  peeped  out  over  the  distant 
purple  hills.  The  college  campus  was  dS^S" 
"tJ  the  fll"'"*'  °l'*Gothic towers oftheS«: 
^J^      ^u  '"''*.'"  ''«"-«««»•    Through  the 

^^  T  l^''  '"t"'"'  ^'•y-  "  fc''  y^  back 
from  the  street,  the  sunbeams  were  stealing  but 
by  no  meaqs  disturbing  the  genUe  old  Profisor 
m  his  great  arm-chair.  In  his  hands  were 
twined  the  cherished  wooden  beads.     Hislyw 


I  If 


160 


A  VOICK  IN  THE  NIGHT-WINDS. 


He  had  heard  his  mother's  voice  above  the 
sighing  November  winds — and  had  responded  to 
the  call.     He  had  reached  his  heavenly  home. 


LIOMT  BEYOND  THE  STARS. 

Chapter    I. 

"Gmrude,  you  look  sad  this  afternoon.    Why 
what  „  the  matter,  child?"  asked  Mrs.  Gniy^' 

had  finished  reading.  Just  then  a  girl  tnmed 
her  head  slightly,  like  a  frightened  d^.  sS 
was  barely  eighteen-a  lily  with  all  itTTweS^ 
^v^yet  folded-slight  and  gracefit  XS 

sweetness  half  of  innocence.  Her  little  head 
co^  with  ripples  of  deep  black  ha^r.  "« 

eyes  were  large,  tender,  living  eyes,  capable  of 
changing  with  ever,  thrill  of  em^n.  The  had 
been  sitting  there,  in  the  winter  twilight  eLiJ^ 
.dly  into  the  deserted,  snow-filled  sZ,'^^^ 
the  vo«e  of  Mn..  Grayson  snddenlTS  ed  h« 

^TtTdiT  T  r '^ ""'  ''''^^''  "'^-«y 

ed  by  tender  feeling,  she  answered: 

T«i^^  ^  ""  Md-and  why  should  I  not  be? 

and  oh  what  a  gloomy  day  it  was  for  me.  1 

was  just  a  day  like  this,  with  «Ulen  skies   Wtw 

winds  and  heavy  snowfalls.     Yes.  ^r;^'^ 

(161) 


162 


LIORT  BBYOND  TRB  STAKS. 


left  the  city  of  the  dead,  that  awful  morning,  I 
knew  that  I  had  left  my  best  friend  behind. 
Poor,  dear  motherl  To  think  that  thon  must 
sleep  in  that  lonely,  snow-covered  gravel" 

The  tears  crept  into  Gertrude's  eyes,  and  she 
was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  again  she 
went  on: 

"But,  Mrs.  Grayson,  you  have  been  so  good 
to  me,  and  I  am  grateful.  You  have  been  to  me 
a  second  mother,  and  it  pains  me  deeply  to  think 
that  I  will  some  day  have  to  leave  you. ' ' 

"Leave  me,  Gertrude?  Why,  what  do  you 
mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Grayson. 

"I  mean  that  I  intend  to  go  away.  I  am  not 
happy  here,  though  you  have  been  g^oodness 
itself  to  me.  The  world  is  empty  and  cold,  and 
I  am  going  to  sacrifice  all  its  pleasures  and  pomps 
for  the  convent.  Yes,  Mrs.  Grayson,  I  am  go- 
ing, and  I  will  spend  life's  remaining  days  there. 
I  have  chosen  my  vocation,  and  when  the  happy 
day  arrives,  and  I  receive  the  hnmble  habit  and 
^il  of  a  nun.  oh  then  my  fondest  hope  will  he.  /e 
been  realized,  then  my  dearest  prayer  will  have 
been  answered." 

"Gertrude  Ferguson,  are  yon  really  serious?" 
questioned  Mrs.  Grayson,  half  uneasily.  "Child, 
this  is  a  foolish  fancy  of  yours.  I  am  a  Protes- 
tant, and  I  cannot  understand  how  you  Catholic 
girls  can  sacrifice  all  life's  gayeties  for  the  dull, 


IIOHT  BHVOND  THK  STAM.  108 

your  dying,  mother  «4ed  me  to  uTmct^? 
her  only  child  I  swon.  that  1  wouM  Ji^J^ 

«e  forever.     But.  Gertrude,  if  itTyour^J^ 
why.  I  have  nothing  to  sav      Ho-.™--  ' 

quite youn,.andyoJne^'be  if  r;^!!::,^ 
stay  with  me  a  while  longer.  •  •  "°"y-»  do 

,„?tr™l"  *"•*  "°*  answer,  but  sighed  deeply 

Then^he^T^T"  "^  ""^  ^^'''y  '^ft  '»>*  ^m 
Thenshesank  down  upon  the  sofa,  and  againh* 

thoughts  stole  back  to  that  lonely  k«  fn  «  Hif 

tant  country  churchyarf.  and  h^^moviit" 

mytT,  while  the  shadows  were  crJ^^^l 

•ly  around  the  «.ent.  cosy  draw^S 

E,^"'~^  ^  '*"  '^-°-"  •"  "d  -round 

al^n«".ndVJ:?'"'''*  "P  *  ""^'^^'e 
•tppcarance.  and  lived  as  much  as  noMiki.  i-i. 

!y  doubled  or  trebled  their  own  ^,-7^7  ^ 
*»|i* -to'l-ple  who  s^^dev^':^"^ 
outward .ppear.nce.and  when  Mr.  S«  5iS 


164 


LIGHT  BKYOHD  THK  STARS. 


everybody  had  it  th«t  surely  now  Mrs.  Geoffrey 
Orayaon  would  have  to  come  down  from  her  once 
lofty  pedeataL     But  no.  Mrs.  Graywn  had  made 
up  her  mind  at  the  ontaet  that  lAe  would  dress  aa 
weU  as  she  ever  did,  and  she  accomplished  her 
object,  and  was  more  than  ever  a  slave  to  Dame 
Fashion.     Her  bonnets,  cloaks  and  gowns  were 
made  after  the  latest  Parisian  patterns,  and  she 
had  a  collection  of  diamonds  that  would  have 
maddened  the  heart  of  any  woman  with  pnde. 
She  had  an  only  child.    The  boys  at  the  Club 
Sans  Souci  called  him  W^-     He  was  not  mote 
than  twenty-five,  and  the  pride  he  had  inhented 
from  his  patents  found  a  favorable  nidus  in  his 
young  heart,  and  burst  forth  in  all  its  virulence. 
Through  his  dead  father'sinflnence,  JaA  had  re- 
ceived an  appwntment  as  cashier  in  a  large  loan 
office.    The  salary,  however,  was  not  over  great, 
but  there  were  good  chances  for  promotion. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  and  Jack 
Grayson  was  sitting  at  his  books  balanang  up 
the  monthly  account.  A  shadow  of  despair  crept 
into  his  young  face,  and  his  fingers  trembled 
visibly,  as  he  counted  up  the  long  rows  of  figur«. 
"A  shortage  of  two  hundred  dollars!"  he  gasped, 
wildly.  "How  can  I  ever  make  it  up?  How 
foolish  of  me  to  have  taken  out  just  four  times 
the  amount  of  my  monthly  salary!  But  oh—the 
debts  were  crushing,  this  high  life  was  crippUng 


LIGHT  BIYOND  THK  STARS. 


lae 


me.  I  was  going  msd.  But  what  am  I  now,  oh 
God,  but  a  liar  and  a  thiei" 

He  torned  sickly  pale,  and  buried  Us  turn  in 
his  hands. 

"The  money  must  be  in  the  safe  to-night,"  he 
groaned,  hoanely,  "if  not,  then— oh.  my  Ood,  I 
see  it  all.  I  will  be  diadiarged,  and  disgraced 
—oh  wicked  wretch  that  I  ami" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  heavy  beads 
of  perspiration  were  forming  on  his  cold  forehead. 
His  eyes  opened  staringly.  His  pen  fell  to  the 
floor,  and  he  whispered  to  himself: 

"I  have  it.  Mother's  diamond  broochi  Ahl 
it  will  serve  my  purpose.  I  will  steal  the  valu- 
able jewel  from  the  casket  on  her  dresser— and 
pawn  it.  It  will  bring  me  the  two  hundred  dol- 
lars. Ha,  hat  She  will  never  suspect  me.  Two 
months  ago  to-day  I  ofiered  my  heart,  my  hand 
to  Gertmde.  I  loved  the  girl,  but  she  spumed 
my  offer.  Now  the  hour  has  come  in  which  I 
will  do  my  deadly  work.  A  mother  has  no  right 
to  shelter  the  girl  who  offered  an  insult  to  her 
son.  I  will  turn  my  mother's  heart  to  bitter 
hatred  by  fastening  the  theft  of  the  brooch  upon 
— upon  Gertrude  Ferguson." 

Just  then  a  wild,  cutting  laugh  rang  through 
the  empty  office,  and  in  another  minute  Jack 
Graysmi  disappeared  in  the  crowds  that  were 
thronging  along  King  street.  Just  as  he  was 
turning  the  comer  he  met  his  mother. 


166 


UOHT  BIVOND  THK  xTAM. 


i 


"Ah,  Jackl  Where  are  you  going?"  the  aak- 
cd,  pleasantly. 

"I  am  going  home  for  dinner,  mother.  TUa 
it  my  busy  day,"  answered  he,  hnakily. 

"Yon  may  tell  Oertrade,  then,"  the  added, 
"that  I'll  have  dinner  at  two  o'clock.  TUa  ia 
the  night  of  Mra.  Cathcart'a  New  Year  party, 
Jack,  and  I  have  not  yet  ordered  the  flowers." 

Pifteen  minntes  later.  Jack  Grayson  unlocked 
the  door  of  his  mother's  private  boudoir.  In 
another  minute  the  casket  on  the  dresser  was 
open— and  there  lay  tlie  crested  diamond  brooch 
in  all  its  brightness.  Quickly  he  grasped  it  and 
placed  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  drew  forth  a 
tiny,  embroidered  handkerchief,  which  he  had 
just  procured  in  one  of  the  upstair  rooms.  A 
hideous  smile  stole  over  his  ugly  face,  and  he 
chuckled  lustily,  as  the  perfumed  handkerchief 
fell  to  the  floor.  Upon  it  was  worked  the  name 
of  Gertrude  Ferguson.  A  moment  later  the 
door  was  locked,  and  Jack  placed  the  keys  where 
'  he  had  found  them. 

The  city  clock  had  just  struck  the  hour  of 
eight.  The  night  was  bright  and  chilly,  and  the 
moon  was  flooding  the  city  with  her  golden 
gleams  of  light.  The  streets  were  filled  with 
dark,  surging  masses  of  busy  people;  all  hearts 
were  longing  patiently  for  the  dawning  of  th< 
New  Yeat^— the  year  that  was  to  bring  joy  to 
some  and  sorrow  to  others. 


LIGHT  BKVONU  THX  STARS. 


167 


Oertrade  Ferguson  was  in  excellent  spirits. 
Her  pare,  young  heart  throbbed  gladly  within 
her  as  she  rose  from  the  piano  and  began  to 
twine  branches  of  holly  and  mistletoe  around  the 
huge  drawing  room  mirrors.  She  could  not  ■re- 
press her  inner  feelings,  and  suddenly  a  rippk  of 
girlish  laughter  sounded  through  the  room. 
Then  she  burst  into  a  song.  It  was  the  :<w(eiest 
of  music.  It  was  like  the  song  of  a  laik,  .o  clear, 
so  sweet  and  tender.  Again  the  wordx  stolt  up- 
on the  silent  air — louder  than  before: 
"Let  OS  gBther  up  the  tunbcmm*. 

Lying  alt  around  our  path; 
Let  u«  keep  the  wheat  and  roics, 

Caiting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff. 
Let  ua  And  onr  greateit  comfoit 

In  the  bleaaiogt  of  to.day. 
With  a  patient  hand  remoTing 
All  the  brian  from  the  way." 

Again  her  laughter  filled  tfae  room.  It  was 
like  the  sound  of  a  distant  river — its  rippling 
waves  making  music  on  the  rocky  ledges. 

Just  then  Jack  Grayson  passed  through  the 
hall,  in  his  full-dress  suit.  He  knocked  at  the 
door  of  his  mother's  private  boudoir  and  asked: 

"Are  you  ready  mother?  The  coachman  is 
waiting." 

"In  a  few  minutes,  dear,"  came  the  an.swer, 
softly. 

Jack  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  threw 


wb 


168 


LIGHT  BEYOND  THB  STARS. 


himself  on  the  sofa,  and  waited.  Gertmde  tam- 
ed her  head  and  smiled,  and  Jack's  face  redden- 
ed. A  few  minutes  later  there  was  the  sonnd  of 
4.  door  opening,  and,  almost  breathless,  Mrs  Oray- 
son  sprang  into  the  room,  her  face  betraying 
very  forcibly  the  varying  emotions  of  chagrin, 
mortification  and  despair.  She  bestowed  a 
searching  glance  upon  her  aon,  and  then  her  eyes 
were  riveted  upon  Gertrude.  Her  teeth  chatter- 
ed; she  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  stuck  to  her 
throat.  Again  her  e^'es  flamed  with  righteous 
indignation,  and,  in  a  hysterical  tone  of  voice, 
she  {I  reused  Gertrude  of  the  theft  of  the  missing 
jewel. 

Gertrude's  face  poled.  She  almost  sank  to  the 
floor,  but  in  a  moment  she  was  herself  again. 
She  raised  her  deep,  blue,  innocent  eyes  to  the 
angry,  stem,  accusing  face  in  front  of  her,  and 
answered,  tremulously: 

"Madam,  it  is  ftiael  I  am  innocent!  I  know 
nothing  of  the  theft.  In  all  these  years  I  have 
never  even  dared  to  enter  your  private  dressing 
room.  How  can  you  therefore  blame  m^  O 
GodI    Thou  knowest  I  am  innocent " 

"You  lie,  girll  This  speaks  for  itself,"  thund- 
ered forth  the  enraged  woman.  "This  hand- 
kerchief was  found  in  front  of  my  dresser.  How 
did  it  get  there?  Now  explain  that  if  you  can, 
innocent  angel!" 


LIGHT  BKVOND  THE  STARS. 


160 


Jack  Grayson  smiled  bitterly,  and,  rising  from 
tbe  sofa,  turned  to  his  mother  and  said,  in  a  sar- 
castic tone  of  voice: 

"Mother,  I  always  told  you  that  your  heart 
would  be  stabbed  by  the  cruel  ingratitude  of  th:s 
thankless  girl.    That  time  has  come. " 

Gertrude  snatched  the  handkerchief  from  the 
haughty  woman,  and  glancing  down  at  the  name, 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  Her 
cheeks  paled,  her  eyes  opened  widely,  and  she 
fell  to  the  sofa,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  wept 
like  a  child. 

Again  Mrs.  Grayson's  shrill  voice  rang  out 
wildly,  like  the  cry  of  a  woman  going  mad: 

"Gertrude,  I  do  not  believe  you.  Wretched, 
unhappy  girl  I  Little  did  I  dream  that  I  was 
sheltering  a  thief.  I  have  vo  affection  for  yon 
any  longer.  The  very  sight  of  your  face  is  hate- 
ful to  me.  Come,  Jack,  let  us  gol  I  feel  little 
like  enjoying  myself  this  evening.  Gertrude- 
Miss  Ferguson,  I  mean — remember  this  affair  is 
not  settled  yet.  I  will  see  you  on  the  morrow. 
I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a  sorry  New  Year  for  you." 

When  Gertrude  again  raised  her  head  from  the 
sofa  they  were  gone.  She  walked  over  to  the 
piano,  but  she — poor  girl — was  in  no  mood  for 
playing.  Then  she  opened  the  front  door  and 
stepped  out  upon  the  large,  open  veranda,  and 
looked  out  into  the  night.      The  clock  on  the 


170 


LIGHT  bryonu  tiik  staks. 


m 


Cathedral  tower  yonder  pointed  the  hour  of  ten. 
It  was  a  glorious  night,  crowned  above  with  a 
canopy  of  blue,  gemmed  with  golden  stars.  The 
streets  were  still  lively  with  people.  In  another 
two  hours  the  New  Year  will  be  dawning,  and 
there  stood  Gertrude,  in  the  moonlight,  and  on 
her  pun;,  young  face  the  lines  of  sorrow  were 
deepening. 

Then  under  her  breath,  she  whispered  to  the 
btisy  night  winds: 

"Heaven  bless  them  for  it  all!  I  was  hungry, 
and  they  gr.ve  me  bread;  I  waa  sick,  and  they 
comforted  me;  I  was  an  orphan,  and  they  took 
me  in.  How  can  they  think  me  so  ungrateful? 
How  can  they  accuse  me?  Ah  no!  I  am  inno- 
cent, and  God  in  heaven  knows  it.  That  is 
enough.  I  know  they  love  me  no  longer.  Their 
soft,  warm  hearts  are  now  cold  as  stone,  and  I 
will  not  bruise  my  feelings  on  ;  ch  barren,  hard 
rocks.  How  foolish  it  is  for  me  to  worry  sol  I 
will  pray  to  God  to  soften  their  hearts;  I  will 
pray  to  Him  to  open  their  eyes— and  some  day, 
some  day.  He  will  tell  them  all." 

When  Mrs.  Grayson  and  Jack  returned  home 
that  evening  Gertrude  Ferguson  was  gone.  On 
the  drawing  room  table  a  note  awaited  them.  It 
read: 

Dear  Friends:  I  am  truly  poor  and  needy, 
yet  I  feel  that  I  have  been  dependent  upon  your 


LIGHT  BEYOND  THE  STARS. 


171 


charity  long  enough.  I  am  leaving  you  to-night, 
to  return  no  more.  I  forgive  you  both,  and  beg 
God  to  bless  you  for  the  kindness  you  have  shown 
a  homeless  girl.  As  a  parting  gift  I  ask  you  to 
accept  these  little  crucifixes  for  yourselves. 
Should  we  never  meet  in  this  world  again,  re- 
member that  the  heart  of  a  grateful  girl  has  not 
yet  ceased  beating  for  you.  Once  more,  then, 
may  God  bless  you  and  reward  you  for  the  kind- 
ness you  have  shown  one  whom  you  have  known 
""  Gertrcdb  Ferguson. 


Chaptrr  II. 

Ten  years  had  pasMd.  The  Graysons  were 
preparing  to  leave  EvansviUe  for  good.  The 
Spanish-American  War  was  on,  and  Jack  had 
heard  the  voice  of  hb  stricken  country,  crying 
for  help.  He  had  enlisted,  and  in  a  few  days  he 
was  going  to  the  fropt  to  fight— if  needs,  to  die. 
It  was  a  sad  day  for  Mrs.  Grayson,  as  she  stood 
at  the  station,  kissing  her  boy  good-bye,  and 
when  the  train  was  pulling  out  and  the  assembled 
crowds  gave  forth  a  few  wild,  frantic  cheers,  that 
fairly  shook  the  city  to  its  foundations.  Jack 
waved  his  parting  farewells  to  that  lonely,  weep- 
ing woman  on  the  platform.  And,  asheraisedhis 
arm  again  and  again,  one  could  see  a  little  cru- 
cifix hanging  from  his  neck.  His  mother  had 
tied  it  there  that  morning.  "This,"  she  said, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "is  the  one  poor  Gertrude 
left  for  you  nearly  ten  years  ago.  The  poor  girl, 
I  wonder  where  she  is.  Take  her  gift  with  you. 
I  have  worn  mine  all  these  years.  The  little 
cross  will  do  you  no  harm — and,  God  knows— it 
may  do  my  boy  some  good. ' ' 

Two  months  later  Mrs.  Grayson  left  for  New 
York,  to  make  her  home  with  an  only  sister  re- 
(172) 


LIGHT  BEVOND  THE  STARS. 


173 


siding  there.  On  her  way  to  the  depot  that 
morning  the  postman  handed  her  a  letter.  It 
was  from  Jack.     It  read: 

D«A«  Mothbk:  We  are  preparing  for  a  long  match 
up  the  country  and  I  have  only  a  few  minutes  to  spare. 
Father  McBrady,  the  dear  old  army  chaplain,  who  has 
l>een  so  good  to  me,  is  waiting  for  this  letter,  so  I  must 
hurry.  It  was  only  yesterday  I  wrote  you,  but  mother, 
something  is  troubling  me  and  I  must  tell  you  all.  For 
ten  long  years  I  have  kept  a  sinful  secret,  and  oh!  you 
don't  know  how  I  have  suflered.  Mother,  Gertrude 
Ferguson  is  innocent  of  the  crime  we  accused  her  of. 
Just  ten  years  ago  this  coming  New  Year's  day  I  stole 
the  brooch,  to  make  up  a  shortage  at  the  loan  office. 
The  handkerchief  was  Gertrude's,  but  I— I  placed  it 
there.  I  know  I  should  have  told  you  this  long  ago, 
but.  mother,  I  could  not.  Foigiveme,  then,  and,  if  you 
ever  meet  Gertrude  in  this  world,  ask  her  to  forgive  me 
also— for  Gcd  knows,  I  have  suffered  enough.  Your 
«'"'•  JAC«. 

It  was  a  cold  and  stormy  night,  late  in  January. 
Glaring,  electric  lights  contrasted  with  grim, 
dark  shadows  upon  the  icy  pavements  of  New 
York  city.  A  cold  wind  was  blowing  and  the 
streets  were  wcU-nigh  deserted.  A  woman, 
wrapped  in  a  heavy  black  shawl,  was  walking 
hurriedly  np  Lexington  Avenue.  Eagerly  she 
crossed  the  street  and  dropped  a  letter  into  the 
mailing-box  on  the  corner.     It  was  Mrs  Grayson. 

On  her  way  home  she  had  to  pass  St.  Vincent 
Ferrer's  Church.      It  was  brightly  illuminated 


..*! 


174 


LIGHT  BBYOND  TBI  STAK8. 


and  every  window  threw  forth  a  welcome  ray  of 
light  into  the  black,  inky  night  arottnd.  Un. 
Grayson  halted  before  the  sacred  edifice.  Bene- 
diction was  being  sung — and  some  strange  power 
held  her  iast.  She  did  not  move  a  muscle,  as 
she  stood  there  and  listened  to  the  loud,  majestic 
peals  of  the  pipe  organ,  while  its  music  floated 
out  upon  the  wings  of  the  lonely  uight 

A  moment  later  a  soprano  voice  swayed  by 
tender  feeling,  pou^  forth  its  pure,  sweet,  liq- 
uid notes.  They  were  clear  and  joyous  as  a 
lark's,  now  rising,  now  falling.  Never  before 
had  Madame  Bonvini  sung  an  "O  Salntaris" 
with  so  much  expression.  Within  the  lofty  edi- 
fice one  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  and  the 
immense  congregation  listened  eagerly  for  every 
word  that  fell  from  the  singer's  lips. 
"O  Saving  Victim,  opening  wide 

The  gate  of  Heaven  to  man  below, 
Onr  foes  prem  on  from  every  aide, 

Thine  aid  aupply.  Thy  Mrength  beMow." 

Mrs.  Grayson  drew  nearer.  That  ringing  voice 
spoke  to  her  lonely  heart  and  sought  out  every 
longing,  every  pain.  It  seemed  as  if  Heaven 
itself  had  suddenly  opened  and  an  angel's  voice 
was  floating  on  the  icy  breath  of  night,  so  sweet 
was  it — so  wonderfully  tender. 

A  minute  later  the  huge  door  swung  open 
wide;  there  was  a  slight  noise,  and  then  it  closed 


UOHT  BBYOND  THB  STARS. 


176 


•gain.  Mrs.  Geofiny  Grayson  had  entend  St. 
'\^ncent'8  and  was  being  ushered  into  a  pew  near 
the  pulpit  Again  that  sweet,  pleading  strain 
floated  over  the  heads  of  the  large  congregation, 
and  clearly  the  leading  soprano  sang: 
"To  Thy  great  name  be  endleM  prain. 

Immortal  Godhead,  one  in  thnel 
O  grant  ua  endleta  length  of  day* 

In  onr  tme  native  land  with  Thee." 

Almost  unconsciously  Mrs.  Grayson  sank  upon 
her  knees  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands;  a 
strange,  mysterious  feeling  was  creeping  over  her 
restless  heart,  and  the  tears  were  gathering  un- 
der her  eyelids.  When  the  "O  Salutaris"  was 
ended,  she  raised  her  misty  eyes  to  the  pulpit, 
and  there  stood  Father  Anselmo,  the  learned] 
white-robed  Dominican,  his  innocent,  saintly, 
religious  face  aflame  with  an  almost  celestial  ex- 
pression. It  was  the  opening  night  of  the  miss- 
ion, and  the  eloquent  theologian  was  to  deliver  a 
series  of  sermons,  and,  later  on,  form  a  class  for 
those  of  the  Protestant  belief  who  were  anxious 
to  study  the  teachings  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

Father  Anselmo  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead 
and  piously  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  There 
was  a  momentary  silence,  then  he  began  to  speak. 
He  spoke  of  life  in  the  world  as  it  is;  of  tempta- 
tion, sin,  shame,  disgrace.  He  told  his  hearers 
how  Christ  had  suffered  on  the  Cross  of  Calvar; 


m. 


Il  ' 


m 


UOK''  BBVOND  THK  STARS. 


for  their  sins,  and  that  each  sin  conunitted  by 
them  was  said  to  be  but  another  Calvary  of  sufier- 
ing  for  the  heart  of  the  merciful  Saviour.  He 
exhorted  them  most  earn<;stly  to  live  better  and 
purer  lives.  Then  he  spo)  ^  of  Heaven— that 
home  of  eternal  rest  and  h;irpiness,  which  would 
some  day  be  theirs  if  the>  would  only  follow  the 
Master's  precepts.  He  spoke  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly, as  he  pictured  the  beauties  of  that 
heavenly  home  beyond  the  skies,  brightened  and 
glorified  by  the  sunshine  of  God's  holy  smile. 
The  hearts  of  the  people  were  stirred  to  their 
very  depths. 

Mrs.  Grayson  in  all  her  life  before  had  never 
heard  so  eloquent  a  sermon.  It  was  grand  and 
impressive,  and  the  good  priest's  words  had  sunk 
into  her  very  soul.  She  went  home  that  even- 
ing feeling  better  and  happier  for  it  all.  The 
foUowii^  evening  Mrs.  Grayson  again  knelt  in 
St.  Vincent's  Church.  Father  Anselmo  preach- 
ed to  large  and  interested  congregations.  Days, 
weeks,  a  month  passed — and  during  this  time 
Mrs.  Grayson  had  been  a  constant  attendant  at 
the  mission  services.  A  change  was  coming  up- 
on her.  Her  former  self  was  gradually  disappear-  . 
ing,  and  Ac  felt  it.  It  was  bang  replaced  by 
a  nobler,  freer,  purer  spirit,  and  she  was  happy. 
The  distinguished  preacher  was  doing  untold 
good.      His  was  veritably  a  harvest  of  souls. 


tIGHT  BEYO.ND  THK  STARS.  I77 


was 


<'*ily    increasing 


His    convert    class 
numben. 

F.?r  T  '?  P^brruuy.  Mrs.  Gtayaon  called  on 

'  .pV°^  ""^  **'°  '^''^  »-«'  "«*  kindly. 
Father.  ,he  said.  '  I  have  come  to  see  you 
and  you  must  make  me  happy.  I  want  >  ou  to 
make  a  Catholic  out  of  >.e.  I  have  attenid  .U 
themissionservicessofaratSt.  Vincent Fenw's 
and,  of  my  own  accord.  I  come  to  you.  Will  voii 
assist  me,  Father?" 

S^'^:.  r"^"'^'  «**^  *'»"»"• '  ■  •^'»«*d  he. 
t^  ri  ■  \'*'P'«*^  of  "ouls  is  alway,  willing 
to  reclann  sheep  that  havestrayed  away  from  the 
Refold  I  shall  only  be  too  happy.  It  is  my 
dutj-,  and  I  shall  do  all  I  can  for  you.  I  mee^ 
my  class  every  afternoon  at  four,  and  I  shall  be 
pleased  to  jee  you  among  them  to-morrow.  I 
gave  my  first  instruction  yesterday.  •' 

Father  Anselmo  shook  hands  in  parting  and 
smiled  gently.  "  May  God  bless  and  guide  her  ■  • 
he  whispered  to  himself,  as  he  closed  the  doi.r 
and  wended  his  way  to  the  reception  nwm.  where 
other  callers  were  awaiting  him. 

The  next  afternoon  Mrs.  Grayson  attended  her 
first  instruction.  Father  Anselmo  met  her  at  the 
door  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  That  afternoon 
he  spoke  on  the  Seventh  Commandment— "Thou 
shaltnot  steal. "  He  grew  more  eloquent  as  he 
proceeded;  his  clear,  ringing,  musical  voice  filled 


■f 


flit 


178 


LIOHT  BBVONU  THK  STARS. 


every  one  with  nobler  thoughts,  nobler  piirposes. 
Mrs.  Grayson  listened  to  every  word  that  fell 
from  his  inspired  lips;  she  was  deeply  interested. 
Yet  she  was  sad.  The  kind  priest's  words  had 
recalled  in  her  memories  of  a  past  that  was  pain- 
ful to  her,  and  on  her  way  home  that  evening 
she  could  not  help  thinking  of  that  New  Year's 
evening,  long  ago,  on  which  she  herself  had 
accused  a  poor,  innocent  girl  of  a  theft  of  which 
she  now  knew  she  was  innocent.  Poor  Gertrude  I 
how  she  must  have  suffered.  Oh,  if  she  could 
only  go  to  her  now  and  throw  herself  at  her  feet 
and  beg  forgiveness— oh,  then  she  could  be 
happy;  yes,  happy  as  the  day  was  long.  But 
where  was  Gertrude  Ferguson?  Where  could 
she  find  the  poor  girl  she  had  wronged?  Alast 
nobody  seemed  to  have  seen  or  heard  anything 
about  her  in  Evansville,  and  Mrs.  Grayson  had 
almost  given  her  up  as  dead. 

That  night  she  sank  upon  hei  knees  and  kiss- 
ed the  little  crucifix  which  Gertrude  had  given 
her,  and,  in  the  fullness  of  her  grief,  gave  vent 
to  bitter  tears.  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
Heaven  and  petitioned  God  to  help  her  to  find 
the  blue-eyed  girl  she  had  v.Tonged.  '  'O  merci- 
hil  God,"  shepleaded,  "sho'V me  poor  Gertrude's 
face,  just  once  again!"  Then  she  rose,  and  on 
the  darkened  horizon  of  her  empty  and  desolate 
future  a  clear,  bright  ray  of  hope  had  suddenly 
beamed. 


"M 


Chaptbk   III. 


Father  Anaelino  was  very  busy  at  St  Vincent's 
but  he  loved  work  when  it  was  done  in  the  name 
of  the  Master.  Often  he  would  say:  "No,  I 
never  weary  of  my  work.  I  am  only  doing  my 
duty  as  the  humble  priest — the  shepherd  of  souls. 
I  love  to  be  near  my  children,  to  teach  them  the 
glorious  paths  of  virtue,  love  and  humility.  The 
ways  that  lead  to  Heaven  may  be  rough  and 
thorny,  but  remember  that  behind  those  cruel 
and  pie;  dng  thorns  rosea  are  clustered — bright 
red  roses— which  will  some  day  be  twined  into 
garland  wreaths  to  crown  your  noble  brows, 
when  Death  shall  gently  part  the  silver  threads 
of  life  that  hold  you  fast" 

The  kind,  gray-haired  theologian  and  scholar 
was  also  overjoyed,  for  Easter  was  coming. 
Xext  Sunday  he  himself  would  baptize  seventy 
converts  in  dear  old  St.  Vincent's.  Mrs.  Grayson 
was  also  one  of  the  many  who  rejoiced,  Ux  on 
that  day  she  too,  was  to  be  received  into  the 
bosom  of  the  Church  which  she  had  learned  to 
love  so  much.  What  would  Jack  say,  if  he  only 
knew?  But  no.  Jack  was  not  to  find  out  until 
she  was  a  "real"  Catholic— and  then  she  would 
(179) 


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■^  (711)  289 -5189 -Fox 


180 


LIGHT  BBYOND  THE  STARS. 


write  him  a  long  letter  herself  and  surprise  him. 

She  often  thought  of  her  poor  boy  and  of  the 
many  hardships  he  had  to  endure  on  the 
distant  battlefield,  and  her  eyes  wonld  fill  with 
tears.  Then  she  would  think  of  those  happy  days 

when  he  was  but  the  little,  golden-haired  boy 

the  idol  of  her  womanly  heart.  How  she  had 
fondled  him  in  her  arms  in  those  moments  of 
happinessi  But  now  he  was  far  away  from  her, 
fighting  bravely  for  his  country.  Cheering  let- 
ters from  Jack,  howe\rer,  filled  her  aching  heart 
with  hope.  Not  a  day  passed  but  Mrs.  Grayson 
was  seen  in  the  crowds  around  the  newspaper 
offices,-  reading  the  bulletins  that  came  fresh 
from  the  seat  of  war.  They  were  like  so 
many  letters  from  home  to  her — for  was 
not  her  heart,  hei  life,  her  boy  out  there,  and 
might  he  not  be  a  ,  .-tim  of  the  cruel  bullet  at 
any  moment? 

Only  three  days  more  and  Baster,  with  its 
glorious  hosannas  of  praise,  would  again  awake 
the  lonely  world,  robed  for  a  short  season  in  pen- 
itential garments,  to  visions  of  beauty  and  glad- 
ness. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon.  The  sun  was 
painting  New  York's  lofty  towers  and  buildings 
with  golden  gleams  of  light.  The  dty  clock 
was  just  pointing  the  hour  of  three  when  the 
ambulance  slowly  drew  up  and  stopped  in  front 


tIGHT  BEYOND  THK  STARS.  181 

Of  St.  Josephs  Hospital.  The  door  was  sudden- 
ly  opened  and  the  form  of  a  dying  woman  was 
gently  earned  up  the  granite  steps  on  a  stretcher 
bysttong.  willing  hands.  Mother  Clotilde's  kind 
faced  whitened,  as  she  turned  her  eyes  to  Dr. 
Steen,  the  ambulance  surgeon. 
"An  accident,  I  presume."  she  said,  sadly 
How  did  it  happen.'*  *  'J 

The  young  doctor  lowered  his  eyes  and  began 
and  there  was  a  tone  of  pity  in  his  voice  as  he 
said;     "The  woman  had  been  reading  the  bul- 
letin boards  on  one  of  the  down  town  streets  and 
just  as  she  was  turning  the  comer  a  west-bound 
car  struck  her  and  threw  her  into  the  air     Will- 
ing hands  carried  her  into  a  drug  stor«  near  by 
It  was  there  I  found  her  in  an  unconscious  con- 
dition, but  in  the  ambulance  she  opened  her  eyes 
once  and  cried  out  feebly:     'My  boy!   my  boy! 
Gertrude!  where  is  she?'    Then  she  was  silent 
again,  and  in  an  instant  her  mind  was  a  blank 
She  opened  her  eyes   widely  and  stared  for   a 
moment  and  then  she  closed  them  again.    A  few 
feet  away  from  where  she  was  lying  they  found 
this  little  prayer-book!     It  is  blood-stained,  and 
bears  the  following  inscription:     'To  Mre.  Gray- 
son,  from  Father  Anselmo. " ' 

Mother  Clotilde  took  the  little  prayer-book  in 
her  hand,  and  the  tears  were  creeping  into  her 
eyes  as  she  said  softly:     • ' Poor  woman!     She  is 


182 


LIGHT  BBVOND  THK  STARS. 


very  ill,  and  she  will  need  all  her  strength  to  pull 
through.  Sister  Patricia  will  take  charge  of  her, 
doctor,  and  we  shall  do  all  we  can  for  the  poor 
soul." 

In  one  of  the  large  rooms  in  the  ward  upstairs 
Sister  Patricia  sat  at  the  bedside  of  the  poor,  un- 
fortunate woman.  A  whole  day  had  gone  by 
and  not  a  word  had  passed  Mrs.  Grayson's  lips. 
Her  face  was  growing  paler  and  there  was  a  look 
of  deep  suffering  upon  it.  The  good  nun  watch- 
ed her  patient  continually,  and  upon  her  lips 
there  lingered  the  breath  of  many  a  tender  pray- 
er. The  face  of  the  sick  woman  seemed  so  fam- 
iliar to  Sister  Patricia,  but  she  could  not  place  it, 
and,  as  she  held  the  woman's  thin  hands  in  her 
own,  she  felt  that  they  were  getting  wanner.  A 
rosy  flush  was  already  creeping  into  the  sickly, 
pallid  face.  Reaction  was  evidently  being  es- 
tablished, and  the  sweet-faced  nun  smiled  gently. 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Gra}rson  opened  her  eyes 
half  dreamily  and  stared  into  the  face  of  the  good 
Sister  bending  over  her.  "How  my  head  pains 
me!  Where  am  I?  What  has  happened  to  me?" 
she  asked,  in  a  feeble,  trembling  voice.  Sister 
Patricia  whispered  something  to  her;  then  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  drifted  into  a  sound  sleep 
which  lasted  some  hours. 

When  again  Mrs.  Grayson  opened  her  eyes, 
Father  Anselmo  stood  at  her  bedside.     Her  face 


Lir.HT  BEYOND  THE  STARS. 


183 


was  brighter  and  the  talked  considerably.  "To- 
morrow, dear  friend,"  said  Father  Anselmo,  "is 
Easter  Sunday— the  day  which  both  yourself  and 
I  were  looking  forward  to  with  sanguine  expect- 
ations. I  regret  very  much  that  you  will  not  be 
able  to  assist  at  St.  Vincent's,  but  you  will  be 
quite  happy  here  with  the  good  nuns.  I  shall 
be  here  at  eight  in  the  morning  and  then  I  shall 
baptize  you.  Rest  yourself  now!  I  shall  leave 
you  in  Sister  Patricia's  hands.  I'm  sure  she  will 
make  you  happy." 

When  Father  Anselmo  rose  to  go,  a  few  stray 
gleams  of  sunlight  fell  upon  his  noble  face  and 
brightened  his  snow-white  locks.  He  raised  his 
hand  in  blessing  and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 
An  anxious  smile  stole  over  Mrs.  Grayson's  face. 
When  he  had  gone.  Sister  Patrii  .  entered  the 
room,  with  a  brautiful  bouquet  of  ijaster  lilies  in 
her  hands. 

"Mother  Clotilde  has  sent  these  up  for  you," 
she  said  kindly,  as  she  put  them  into  a  vase  on 
the  table.  The  sick  woman  smiled  her  thanks, 
and  her  fingers  moved  nervously  to  a  little  cruci- 
fix that  lay  upon  her  breast. 

What  a  pretty  crucifix  you  have  there,  dear, ' ' 
said  Sister  Patricia  softly,  as  she  walked  over  and 
loc  ■  'at  it.  Almost  suddenly  the  color  left  her 
fac  .,  feeling  of  weakness  came  over  her,  and 
she  sank  down  upon  the  bed.     In  an  instant  she 


>l\ 


■nI 


184 


tIGHT  BKVOND  THE  STARS. 


I 


jwtson  her  feet  «p,i„,  and  Mrs.  Grayson  asked 
n^^usly:     "What  is  the  matter.  Sister?    Ar. 

"No,  dear.  It  is  nothing,"  she  replied.  "I 
once  had  a  crucifix  like-But  no!  I  must  be 
^mmg/.  Then  she  walked  to  the  JSi<^ 
and  opened  ,t  and  sighed  deeply.  The  city  was 
h^ly  with  people,  and  a  boyish,  sweet  tenor 
voice  was  ringing  up  from  the  noisy  street.  He 
was  one  of  those  little  wandering  minstrels,  and 
h«  musical  accent  w^  that  of  a  son  of  sunny 
vine^adltaly.  His  pure  notes  rose  and  fell  and 
melted  into  each  other  as  he  sang: 
"I^tna  gather  up  the  »nnbeainB, 

Lying  all  around  our  path; 
I/et  us  keep  the  wheat  and  ri>8e8, 

Casting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff. 
Let  us  find  our  greatest  comfort 

In  the  blessings  of  to-day. 
With  a  patient  hand  removing 
All  the  briars  from  the  way." 
Sister  Patricia  could  listen  no  longer,  and 

heart  throbbed  with  something  that  was  akin  to 
P«un.  That  song  had  recalled  the  dearest  mem- 
«»es.  and  her  thoughts  went  back  to  a  New 

nw  VZ^'  ^'^^"'^  •"  **  ^■^^''y  haunts  of  her 
chenshed  past.  Presently,  the  lad  struck  up 
another  sfram,  and  Mrs.  Gray«>n  listened  eagerly 
to  the  Italian  love-song.     It  was  so  patheticTand 


WGHT  BKYOND  THE  STARS.  I85 

mellow  notes  died  aJay  on  Th^  H         ^'  ^ 
spoke  cheering  words  S'^ter  Patnan 

story  of  aU  my^u„hapX      S'e^lSl     -*'* 

nused  herself  up  in  her  hJ  »n^         •        *"*  *^* 
"Tit«f  t«^      P  »n  ner  Ded  and  continued: 
just  ten  years  ago  last  New  V^r'.   t  * 
a  poor  girl  ont  of  my  honsTiJrt  '  "*^ 

miles  from  here      T  fi,       t  *  ***'*"  "«"iy 

-d  wonld  ha^:  doL  tXX^h  '"1°^  '"' 
very  night  I  accnsed  her^f^^j"^'  }'^'  *«* 
brooch.     I  susne^^i  t         "**^"»  "X  diamond 

HandlcerJii^Sg  wT,Lfi„^-  '  ''''^'  « 
dressing-room."  *  '"  "^^  P^vate 

"Handkerchief  bearing  her  «=».  I..      • 
Sister  Patricia    ^TT     -    .        ^'     *="«*  o«t 

yes,     went  on  Mrs.  Grayson      "R„f    1.    • 

was  hasty  and  wronir  of  „,-?  ^  "'  **'*■  « 

/  «uu  wrong  ot  me  to  have  acmsAri  i.^ 
The  poor  eirl   T  t-„ ,  accused  her. 


:iil 


186 


LIOHT  BRVOND  THR  STARS. 


pawned  the  jewel  to  make  up  a  shortage  at  the 
office  that  would  have  disgraced  us  both.  But 
Jack  ia  a  thrive  boy  now,  fighting  for  his  country. 
Yet,  oh,  I  am  so  unhappy,  for  I  feel  that  I  must 
make  amends  to  the  poor  girl  I  have  wronged. 
I  have  searched  in  vain  for  her  all  these  years, 
but  God  I  am  sure  will  some  day — " 

'  'Lead  you  to  her, ' '  interrupted  Sister  Patricia. 
"And  he  has  done  so.  The  longer  I  look  into 
your  searching  eyes  and  the  longer  I  listen  to 
your  story,  the  stronger  grows  the  thought  that 
I  have  at  last  met  my  old  friend  and  benefactor 
— ^the  dearest  friend  I  had  in  all  this  world. 
Mrs.  Grayson,  is  it  really — O  God  be  thanked  a 
thousand  times  I" 

The  sick  woman  opened  her  eyes  widely;  the 
siu^se  had  been  too  much  for  her,  and  almost 
wildly  she  stared  into  the  pale  little  face  under 
the  black  veil.  Then  she  fell  back  upon  the  bed, 
weak  and  exhausted,  murmuring:  "Gertrude 
my  child!  Come  to  my  arms;  forgave  me  for  au 
my— " 

The  poor  woman  could  not  say  another  word. 
Sister  Patricia  kissed  her  cheeks  tenderly  and 
sank  upon  her  knees.  Together  they  wept  tears 
of  joy,  while  the  Angelus  was  ringing  a  solemn 
peal  of  prayer  over  the  roof-tops  of  the  city  rich 
in  its  twilight  glory. 

Easter  morning   dawned  with   the  chirping 


tlOHT  BEYOND  THR  STARS.  187 

pine  tree,  that  surrounded  the  hospital  S 
Gmyson  h.d  rested  well  .11  nigh^Tshe^ 
Jriifc'^w""'' '  '"'  »>•??'««  moment  in'S^ 
n^^^-^^^y"'^""''"^-  She  had 
m«the  g,rl  she  had  wronged.  Sister  Patnda 
had  forgiven  her  in  her  heart  long  yea«  a^ 

lll^U:'^  ''LlL"  '""^  Graysou'iZJonTn 
Sen  ^'  *^r«^*  ^°«»«  of  forgivene^i  had 

ly    •-h^c«T.'?";     "°'''"°'"    "he  said  kind- 
ly,    how  could  I  forget  you.  after  all  you  had 

»»««d  you  both  in  my  prayers. •• 
"And  now.  Sbter."  began  the  happy  woman. 

Kuei"  y  "'^'^   "  '"^  '^  yo-      Can  y"u 
guess?       Sister  Patricia  shook  her  head  in  the 

negative,  and  then  she  went  on.     '•wTpIa^ 

e  «ht.  This  mormng  he  receives  his  large  class 
of  converts  into  the  Church  at  St.  WntT 
I  am  one  of  them-but  I  will  not  be  th«^1S  he 
««>m„g  to  hear  my  confession  and  ^^'m^^; 
first  Holy  Communion  here.  My  first  Holv 
Communioni  Yes.  but  Sister,  doyouSwttl^ 
something  tells  me  it  will  also  be  iy  iS^'^Sh 
I^am«.  happy  now.     If  Jack  wJo^  h«| 

^^i'Carholi"  ""'''^'  '^^  mi-teslwillbea 
When  she  had  finished.  Sister  Patricia  took 


il 


..^i! 


1 1 

iii 


ISA 


LIGHT  RRVOND  TMR  STARS. 


l\ 


I  i' 


Hi 


her  thin  hands  into  hers  and  said,  while   

glistened  in  her  eyes:     "Oh,  I  am  also  happyT 
My  prayer  has  been  answered. ' ' 

Mrs.  Grayson  was  growing  weaker,  and  the 
complications  that  the  doctors  bad  di«aded  were 
slowly  setting  in.  A  dark  shadow  crept  into  the 
gentle  nun's  face. 

The  hospital  clock  struck  eight,  and  Father 
Anselmo  had  ju.st  baptized  Mrs.  Grayson.  Then 
he  heard  her  confession  and  administered  the 
Sacraiaent  of  the  dying.  Sister  Patricia  and  the 
renowned  and  brilliant  theologian  knelt  at  the 
bedside  for  fifteen  minutes  and  prayed.  Mrs. 
Grayson  repeated  all  the  prayers  disHnrtly,  and] 
when  she  raised  herself  slightiy  to  bless  herself, 
there  was  a  slight  groan,  followed  by  profuse 
bleeding  from  the  mouth  and  nose.  The  fatal 
hemorrhage  that  the  doctors  had  foreseen  had 
taken  place,  and  the  end  was  nigh. 

The  poor  woman  was  sinking  rapidly,  and  she 
was  gradually  lapsing  into  unconsciousness. 
She  turned  slightly  and  raised  her  finger  and 
motioned  Sister  Patricia  to  her  side. 

"I  am  dying.  Oh,  I  am  so  happy.  Pray  for 
mel"  she  said  faintly.  Then  she  closed  her 
eyes,  and  for  the  next  half  hour  she  was  hover- 
ing on  the  brink  of  eternity.  Just  then  there 
was  a  slight  rap  at  the  door.  Mother  Clotilde 
handed  Father  Anselmo  a  letter  edged  in  black. 


mm 


WOHT  BavoND  THE  STARS.  IgQ 

It  WM  addressed  to  M-«.    r>,» 

fniped  "imporunt"  "'''°"'  "'"*  *«» 

'^''tisTJ^t„'^"^T  -"  visibly  ar- 
Then  he  hanSs^i  ""T  *'*'  ''>'*"«  ^°»»''- 

tion.the,o^si.er:;td^rd''^f;^:;rr 

D«A«  Mas.  Gmavsom-    if  j. 
Ion"  you  of  your  w^L  1       "?  '**"'°'  '"'"y  »"  «" 

l"t  breath.  .„d  2Ld  LT     °'  ^"  '^'°°*'  "«"  »•» 

knew  hU.   T.lm^'^~nn^'?  '".f  i*"^  ''^  '"  '"•<' 

t«A«d.  .nd  on  our  tir^mi  J       u  '^  ""^  """^  «" 
1«  hour,  and  pr^^/n"-  ^ '""««'  him  in  hi. 

"frt*:   "S«»ditto»^eT«dMT  T'''"«'  **"■  '"« 
•dforitall.    Godera^tw^f  "'""•""'•"'''on. 

^o  it.  gi^eS^.^'"-^^-^  -eday  he^. 

Mr^  Grayson,  that  GoH -ill   ^7  P"''  ""^  ^'" 

^^  "•inj,  I  aMure  you  of  my  hnmbje  pmy. 

Voura  in  r-hrist, 
xm.       o.  Father  McBaAov. 

,Thedyi„j:r,tp^^x*';es'rd  •=  Mtr- 


190 


LIGHT  HKYMMI  THK  STARS. 


m 


ing  to  Heaven  to  meet  my  boy. ' '  Then  a  peace- 
ful smile  stole  over  her  face  and  in  another 
instant  her  soul  had  flown  heavenwards. 

Father  Anselmo  silently  left  the  room  and  on 
his  saintly  old  face  there  was  a  look  of  sadness. 

Sister  Patricia  kissed  the  little  crucifix  and  de- 
termined to  keep  it  always.  Then  she  rose  and 
walked  to  the  window.  The  bells  of  the  city 
churches  were  sounding  their  anthems  of  glad- 
ness far  into  the  busy  streets.  '.Tie  golden  gates 
of  the  morning  were  open  and  the  sun  was  throw- 
ing 'ais  bright  beams  on  the  roof-tops  of  busy 
New  York.  Long  she  gazed  upon  that  beautiful 
picture.  Bverybody  was  glad;  everything  look- 
ed so  cheerful.  She  alone  was  sad.  Again  she 
raised  the  little  crucifix  to  her  lips,  and,  while  in 
her  deep-blue  eyes  the  tears  slowly  gathered,  her 
heart  was  filled  with  gratitude— for  her  friends 
were  enjoying  the  vision  of  God— the  glory  of  the 
risen  Saviour— the  Light  beyond  the  Stars. 


t 


THE  PARTING  OP  THE  WaVS. 

Cbaptrr  I. 

The  horse  kicked  impatiently  airainst  the 
wooden  gate,  then  threw  her  head  ZZ  aij 
and  hstened  eagerly.  Only  a  passing  windd 
and  rattled  through  th    bon'y  Sle^  ^S  "cu 

«ll      U   "'f, »-"-«»    -«   evidl^tly  S 
asleep      Upon  his  face  was  stamped  a    look    o 
w^^  and  hi,  breath  came  in'TnterrJ.TtL' 

valleys  like  angiy  wolves-they  were  .^^ei,. 
^'nThrco',?  "?'"•     ^''«'>°-'-,ysh1^'^ 

T?en  r.S!f  "^"^  *'"'  "^"P""*  '"  the  sleigh. 
Then  a  shnll  cry  rang  out  into  the  frozen  air- 
Nell  was  almost  frozen-and  suddenly  ther«  "L 
IT  under  the  heavy  blankets  in  the  s  eS  arS 
two  eyes  opened  to  survey  the  surrounding     it 

patting  the  horse  gently,  tarew  back  the  gate 
that  opened  mto  a  narrow  lane,  leading  toZ 
comfortable  stebles  beyond  ^         '^' 

"Asleep  againi- he  muttered  as  he  led  the 
h«:seon.  "Well!  welll  The  last  I  knew  I  ^ 
dnvingoutofKenwickand  here    I    aT  ho^ 


m 


:    }J 


m 


192 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAVS. 


again.  I  must  have  been  asleep  over  an  hour." 
He  had  now  reached  the  stable  door  and  the 
horse  turned  her  face  gladly  to  his.  "  Ah ,  Nell  I ' ' 
he  said  tenderly,  as  his  hand  stroked  the  lovely, 
jet-black  mane,  "you're  a  jewel.  You  always 
seem  to  know  when  your  master  sleeps  and  you 
jog  along  the  lone  country  roads  and  always 
bring  me  home  safely.  I  often  think  God  must 
be  having  a  hold  of  the  lines.  But  you're  a 
jewel,  old  Nell,  and  my  heart's  at  rest  when  you 
are  with  me."  An<^  again  he  petted  her,  as  a 
mother  would  her  child,  and  she  stretched  her 
head  so  lovingly  to  him  and  opened  her  eyes  so 
widely  that  she  seemed  to  understand  it  all. 

In  a  few  minutes  Nell  was  warmly  housed  and 
the  man  entered  the  house  on  the  hill  near-by. 
A  little  sign  near  the  doorway  bore  the  inscrip- 
tion: "Dr.  Stewart  Wilkins,  Physician."  It 
looked  as  if  it  were  in  its  last  days,  this  little 
sign.  It  was  badly  in  need  of  a  coat  of  paint, 
but  what  matter,  since  every  child  within  a  ra- 
dius of  forty  miles  knew  that  the  little  house  on 
the  hill  was  the  home  of  one  of  the  kindliest 
souls  in  all  the  country-side. 

Dr.  Wilkins  had  passed  the  half-century  mark 
in  life.  For  thirty  years,  he  had  administered  to 
the  good  people  of  Plattsville  and  vicinity,  and 
many  a  child  at  night  did  not  close  an  eye  be- 
fore asking  God's  blessing  upon  the    man    who 


TH«  PASTING  OP  THB  WAYS.  IflS 

«W  through  storm  and  rain,  day    and    ni^h, 

to  take  ,t  down  again,  after  waiting  w^ly    W 
he  patients  that  would  not  materiLT^L  !n 

K  «!fr  '"^'^  -'''««i«'^^^oLindln^j 
heart,  and  they  tumedto  him  in  a„  their    affic 

But  he  was  dying  a  martyr  at  the  post  of  duty 

tj!^^       *  '"^  '•*=''  "^  <Jy»n«.  no  matter  what 

r  will  come  just  as  fast  as  Nell  can  cany   mf" 

he  would  say  and  every  one  knew  thaT^alwL 

kept  h,s  word.     For  days  and  days,   he    wS 

that  his  eyes  grew  weary  on  the  road  Tl,.-,^ 
years  ago  he  had  come  here,  fresh  iom  the  SS 
of  the  umversity.  the  imprint  of  culture  and^ 
finement  upon  his  handsome  featm^but  ^ 
day  he  looked  like  an  old  man.  kTSl  hS 
ost  rts  elasticity,  his  spirit  its  buoyancy^nd  hif 

h  LS.i  ..  "^  '1^:;.'"^  *^«^  *  Steel-gray  but 
face.    The  years  had  really    aged    him    p«ma. 


194 


THE  PARTING  OF  THB  WAYS. 


turely  but,  in  his  heart     the    younger  feelings 
were  creeping  back. 

"I  am  growing  younger,"  he  said  one  night 
in  the  presence  of  friends.  "Within  still  throb 
the  heavenly  feelings  of  long  ago.  Back  from 
those  happy  days,  alight  with  precious  memo- 
ries, they  come,  the  hot,  glowing  thoughts  that 
bum  and  consume.  Love  opens  my  heart's  door 
to  them  and  they  enter  and  dwell  with  me  through 
the  livelong  day  and  befriend  me  in  the  long, 
white  silences  on  i  the  far-stretching,  country 
roads.  Ah!  I  am  contented — glad  to  be  able  to 
work  amongst  this  poor,  pitiful  humanity." 


Chapter  II. 

Wilkins  was  a  bachelor.  In  the  little  !,««=- 
onthe  hill  the  doctor  dwelt  in  s^^^^tl^. 
the  y^irs  hadschooled  him  into  a  lover  of  souS 
and  he  was  happiest  when  he  was  alone.  A  p,^ 
found  student,  he  loved  books  and  often  hiVlS 
flickered  through  his  study  windows  long  after 
^^nudnight  passed  by.  He  wLt 
c^sant^y,  for  he  was  a  poet  and  often  poured  out 
h«^ulm  sweetest  song.  The  doctor^oml  his 
ve«^  away  in  a  trusty  volume  and  loved  and 
giiarded  them  as  zealously  as  a  father  would  his 

w^tr."     "^^"^^^^-^   Published    them,    he 
would  have  grown  famous  in  a  night  and  Platts- 

^lewouldha^  been  advertised  to  the  confines 
of  the  earth.  But  the  doctor  willed  otherwise 
He  was  anxious  to  keep  these  lines  from  human 
eyes  save  his  own.  and  he  succeeded.  Perhaps 
when  he  was  gone,  some  one  would  discover  the 
treasured  manuscript  andthen-well.  then  he 
wouldn't  care.  While  he  lived  only  God  and 
himself  should  know.  7   ww    and 

shouldkeepto    himself   his  life's    best   work? 

"Selfishness!"     I  hear  one    say.     Ah  nol    pZ 

(185)  ^  ' 


I 


:;  J: 


IM 


THB  PARTING  OF  THB  WAYS. 


mther.  Do  you  know  that  Wilkins  once  loved 
and  loved  strongly.  About  his  life  lingera  tiie 
memory  of  one  of  Love's  saddest  dramas  and, 
perchance,  his  muse  has  wandered  along  these 
oft-frequented  ways  and  he  voices  in  his  poems 
this  great  sorrow  and  writes  for  ns  the  bitter 
chapter  of  his  heart's  romance. 

Upon  his  jodc  of  manuscript  was  inscribed  a 
name.  From  appearances  one  would  judge  that 
it  had  been  done  in  ink  years  ago.  "Madeline," 
it  was  called,  this  unpublished  collection  of  verae, 
and  the  poet,  himself,  only  knew  what  piercing 
thorns  were  hidden  under  so  fascinating  a  name. 


Cbaptbk  III. 
When  Dr.  Wilkins  Srst   came   amongst    the 

bnghtastheyaieaow.  New  roads  w«^  ^~ 
^ed  up  forests  w«.  cut  down  aTpS 
btoken.  Eveiything  was  waking  from  a^^ 
of  profound  lethargy.  The  people  had  n^^ 
known  what  it  was  to  have  a  doctor  I  S 
Aidst  and  were  jubilant.     A  school  was  so^n 

S?     Z^"  l'«'«y.  Md.    when  the  youn^ 

tT'^^.  "^"^  *">""  °^  ^^  ti«ne  each  Z 
to  teach  the  little  ones  in  the  old  log   ^h^f 

hoj^  the  old  ranklings  ceased  and  ^r  Ttim  " 
«t  least,  all  were  satisfied.  "How  good  of  a,^ 
fadvT'?  ^«y  God  bless  him7.^  ^'   ^J 

S;«^ir^.i   ."**'^  ***'"«'»■  *^o  ''hen    he    is 
through  with  them, "  said  another 

nie?7'iL*J^"'^'^"^^'*°'«  ^"«~is  Four- 
m^L  l.r^?,''  '^'''"''*  l^^berman.  who  had 

(197) 


m 


198 


THK  PARTING  OH  THK  WAVS. 


these  occasions  that  Wilkins  had  first  seen  her. 
She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  only  in  her  teens  then, 
but  blessed  with  a  simplicity  of  manner  that 
made  her  a  general  favorite  wherever  she  went. 
A  few  years  passed  and  she  returned — a  matured 
Bachelor  of  Arts. 

Often  of  an  evening,  when  the  doctor  grew 
weary  of  his  narrow,  little  room,  he  would  hitch 
up  his  horse  and  drive  down  to  the  Foumier 
home  to  discuss  matters  of  common  interest  with 
Madeline.     Biography,  history,  travel,  poetry, 
science,   art— all  would  be  touched  upon  and 
Madeline  would  astonish  the  doctor  by  .her  know- 
ledge and  wonderful  grasp  of  human  affairs.    He 
admired  her  intellectuality— it  drew  him  like  a 
magnet.     But,  in  time,  there  was  a  "something 
else  stealing  into  his  heart  and  playing  strange 
antics  with  him.    Go  where  he  might,  there  was 
the  face  of  Madeline  before  him,  young  and 
beautiful  as  a  saiit's,  fresh  and  smiling  as  the 
morning.     In  his  office,  on  the  road,  in  the  sick- 
chamber,  in  the  very  presence-  of  death,  in  joy 
and  sorrow— there  she  rose  before  him,  dimly,  in 
clouds  of  mist,  like  a  white  angel  of  mercy— and 
he  always  felt  the  better  for  having  seen  her. 
Hetriedtofoigetherbuthecouldnot.   She  was 
uppermost  in  his  mind  through  all  the  hours  of 
his  busy  day.     Thinking  of  her  did  not  make 
him  shirk  his  work.  He  did  not  grow  careless,  but 


THK  PARTING  OF  THE  WA\S. 


199 


work  and  Hie  were  a  pleasure  to  him,  now  that 
they  were  radiant  with  the  sunshine  that  stole 
from  the  eyes  of  MadeUne— his  Madeline.     Ahl 
not  yetl    If  he  could  only  tell  her  that  he  thought 
of  her  every  minute  of  the  day,  that  he  often  woke 
dunng  the  night  calUng  "Madelinel  Madeline!" 
untU  the  lonely  shadows  shook  their  heads  and 
mocked  him  and  the  vagrant  breezes,   outside, 
paused  and  listened  and  then  laughed  bitterly; 
if  he  could  only  tell  her  that  he  had  worshipped 
her  from  the  first  day  that  he  had  seen  her,  that 
he  loved  her  with  all  the  love  of  his  strong,  man- 
ly heart  and  that  he  would  be  happy  only  when 
he  could  call  her  his  wife— ah,  then,  his  little 
world  about  Plattsville  would  be  as  near  like 
heaven  as  he  could  ever  wish  it.     Yes,  he  would 
tell  her  all.     The  next  time  his  eyes  met  Made- 
line's she  would  know  everything. 

One  evening  in  June,  there  was  a  gentle  rap  at 
the  surgery  door  and  in  walked  Madeline,  her 
cheeks  aglow  with  excitement  and  her  lips  fram- 
ed into  the  sweetest  of  smiles.  It  was  her  first 
visit  to  the  little  house  on  the  hill.  The  light 
from  a  lamp  overhead  fell  tenderly  upon  her  face 
and  made  it  more  beautiful.  "Verily,  she  is  an 
angel  sent  from  paradise,"  thought  he. 

"lam  glad  you  came,  Madeline,"  he  said 
cheerily.  "I  have  been  thinking  of  you  often 
these  days." 


w 


'I 


aoo 


THE  PAKTINO  OF  THB  WAYS. 


The  girt  turned  her  head  nervously,  like  a 
frightened  bird,  and  her  cheeka  flushed  crinuon. 
"Yon  will  no  doubt  wonder.  Doctor,  why  I 
came,"  she  at  last  began  and  her  lips  quivered. 
"You  may,  perhaps,  think  me  presumptuous.  If 
so,  then  forgive  me.    You  are  too  busy  for  a  man 
of  your  years.     I  see  that  you  are  kept  working 
day  and  night.     Your  practice  is  increasing  and 
you  must  not  run  yourself  to  death.    I  feel  that 
you  should  be  relieved  of  your  work  at  the  school. 
You  have  given  your  services  gratuitously  for 
nigh  five  years  and  I  feel  that  I  would  like  to  re- 
lieve yon  of  this  work.     I  spoke  to  father  to^y 
and  he  is  quite  willing  that  I  should  teach.     I 
feel  that  I  want  to  do  some  good.    God. expects 
me  to  use  my  telerts,  and  why  should  I  not  be 
permitted  to  do  so  right  here  in  PlattsviUe  amongst 
my  own  people.     My  services  will  be  given  free 
I  do  not  mean  to  charge  for  them.     You  must 
not  work  so  hard.     It  worries  me.     You  simply 
must  let  me  reUeve  you,  and  then  I  will  be 
happy." 

Wilkins  was  surprised,  but  the  girl's  earnest 
sentences  pleased  him. 

"You  are  a  noble  girl,"  he  said  after  a  mom- 
enf  s  hesitation,  "and  I  thank  you.  But  I  don't 
aee  how  you  should  be  expected  to  give  up  your 
freedom  for  my  sake." 

"Freedom?    What  is  it  after  all  to  a  girl  like 


THE  PARTING  OK  THK  WAYS.  201 

me    Nothing  but  that  vain,  empty  passing  of 
precious  moments  without  accomplisSng  fnv 
thing  ennobling  in  God's  eyes.     iLl^ltvT 

teach  httle  children  to  lead  their  thoughts  to 

thehme.     I  don't  want  you  to  die  soon.     Nol 
nolJ^wantyoutoliv^Hve  through  long,  happy 

Dr.  Wilkins  gazed  into  the  far  away  and.  for  a 

St'l^r^  T"  *"'  "•'«'«'  of 'her  wZi' 
^en  he  began:     "Since  you  are  so  kind  then 
Made hne.  you  may  commence  your  duties  at  th^ 
school  tcvmorrow.     Some  day  I  will  try  to  repay 
you  for  all  this."    Then  he  bit  h^l «  S 
«^nce  stole  in  between  them  like  a  frien";  2t 
drew  them  closer.    The  moonlight  now  fell  in 
streams  through  the  latticed  winlow  ^^i  t 
o.»e  precious  and  holy  thoughts  to  bot^TnJ 
that  evemng  as  the  two  walked  jlong  the  iS 
m  the  direction  of  the  Foumier  ho'me  they  ^ 
ed  that  they  would  love  each  other  alwajT 


I 


Chaptbx   IV. 


A  few  short  yean  passed.  "Doc"  Wilkina, 
as  the  people  called  him,  had  grown  in  public 
fav  r.  Every  one,  save  Madeline,  called  him 
"Uoc."  She  always  called  him  "Doctor"  in 
the  presence  of  the  villagers.  "You  worked  for 
the  title,"  she  said,  one  evening  as  they  walked 
to  the  gate,  "and  you  deserve  it.  Stewart,  why 
do  you  allow  the  people  to  call  you  'Doc?'  Why, 
in  the  city  the  physicians  and  surgeons  do  not 
like  this  aspersion  at  all.  You  must  demand 
'Doctor.'  Why,  were  I  a  physician,  and  in 
heaven  to-night,  and  were  any  one  to  call  me 
'Doc,'  I'd  simply  leave  the  place.  That's  all  I" 
and  she  snapped  her  little  fingers  as  if  she  really 
meant  what  she  said.      , 

Stewart  leyied  upon  the  gate  and  laughed  so 
heartily  that  the  wooden  boards  fairly  squeaked 
with  alarm.  Then  he  straightened  up  in  all 
seriousness.  "Why  make  a  change  and  grow 
dignified  now,  Madeline?  It  would  hurt  their 
poor  hearts  were  I  to  say  anything  to  them  and  I 
do  not  want  to  hurt  them.  When  they  call  me 
'Doc,'  they  feel  that  they  are  very  close  to  me 
and  I  am  close  to  them.  It  breaks  down  the 
(202) 


THB  PARTINO  OF  THK  WAYS. 


ao8 


barriers  between  us.  I  know  what  they  mean, 
and  why  should  I  care?  I  know  their  love  and 
devotion  and  I  accept  'Doc'  as  the  sweetest 
music  that  can  ever  come  from  their  hearts. 
They  are  sincere,  at  least,  and  sincerity  is  verily 
a  jewel,  Madelinel  I  have  grown  so  used  to 
this  sort  of  thing  that  whenever  the  t-o-r  is  add- 
ed I  feel  uncomfortable.  Let  them  call  me  what 
they  wish!  I  am  always  their  friend.  'Doc'  is 
good  enough  for  me  if  they  are  satisfied. " 

"Doctor,"  of  course,  would  have  been  more 
professional,  more  ethical,  but,  after  all,  Wilkins 
did  a  wise  thing  by  letting  things  stand  as  they 
were.  He  had  all  Plattsville  and  vicinity  at  his 
knees— one  word  to  hurt  them,  from  his  lips, 
would  have  driven  them  away  forever.  It  was 
this  sympathy,  this  humility  that  tightened  the 
iron  chains  about  the  doctor  and  his  people. 

In  time,  it  was  rumored  that  Wilkins  would 
soon  take  unto  himself  a  helpmate.  In  the 
Foumier  home,  there  was  general  rejoiciug. 
Madeline  would  soon  be  Mrs.  (Dr.)  Wilkins  and 
all  the  old  gossips  of  the  village  were  busy  wag- 
ging their  tongues.  It  was  the  general  topic 
for  discussion  on  market  days.  At  the  county 
fair,  a  few  weeks  previous,  Madeline  had  been 
the  cynosure  of  hundreds  of  eyes.  In  the  post- 
office,  in  the  grocery  store,  in  the  blacksmith 
.shop— everywhere,  the  men  and  women  talked 
and  argued  and  gibbered. 


ao4 


TMK  PABTINO  Or  TM«  WAYS. 


It  wanted  but  a  d«y  and  then  the  wedding 
would  be  « thing  of  the  put.  On  the  morrow, 
the  happy  event  was  to  take  place.  Madeline, 
exhausted  on  account  of  the  many  pteparationa,' 
retired  early.  By  ten  o'clock  the  Pournier'a 
were  all  asleep. 

Through  a  cellar  window  a  pale  Ught  stiU  flick- 
ered. BateeseUtonr,  the  trusty  butler,  had  only 
a  few  littie  things  to  do,  and  then  he  would  creep 
away  to  rest.  Before  leaving  the  cellar,  however, 
he  drained  several  ^uks  of  rich  Burgundy  wine. 
Later,  he  set  the  burning  coal-oil  lamp  out  into 
the  hall  and,  singing  an  old  French  voyageur's 
song,  reeled  and  stumbled  into  his  room. 

One  of  the  hall  windows  was  wide  open,  a 
heavy  wind  was  blowing^-and  two  hours  later 
the  Foumier  mansion  was  in  flames.  Men,  wo- 
men and  children  fought  the  fire  Uke  Trojans, 
but  without  avail.  Mr.  and  Mrs  Foumier  were 
safe,  but  Madeline  could  not  be  found. 

For  fully  half  an  hour,  the  men  had  searched 
in  vain.  Presently,  there  was  a  faint  cry,  like 
one  calling  for  help  afar  off.  All  ran  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  voice.  Stewart  Wilkins,  white  as 
death,  was  in  the  very  front.  He  pressed  on  in 
anguish,  closer  and  closer  to  the  burning  build- 
ing. He  saw  a  little,  thin  hand  struggling 
thiough  the  smoke.  Like  a  madman,  he  dashed 
into  the  seething  flames  and  was  lost  in  clouds  of 


THK  PAKTINO  or  THK  WAYB. 


206 


■moke.  The  heavy  timben  swayed  and  cracked 
overhead.  In  a  aecond  they  would  come  crash- 
ing down  and  all  would  be  over. 

Presently,  Wilkins  stumbled  oack  through  the 
fire  and  smoke,  holding  Madeline  in  bis  strong 
arms  as  he  made  for  the  outer  air.    The  girl  was 
unconscious  and  badly  burned,    and  Wilkins 
fought  on,  wild  and  distracted  with  grief.    When 
he  reached  the  open,  he  could  go  no  farther  and 
sank  down  and  wept  like  a  child.     Bateeae  was 
almost  beside  himself.     A  glance  at  the  sufieiing 
girl's  expressive  face  overpowned  him,  and  he 
threw  himself  to  the  ground  and  sobbed  as  if  his 
heart  would  break.      "O  Godl    fctgivel"    he 
groaned,    "I  am  to  blame—"     And,   mingled 
with  his  threnody  came  the  sound  of  Wilkins' 
wild,  touching  heart-cry:     "Madeline!  my  M»J 
elinel  Speak,  Ospeak  just  one  word  nd  then—" 
But  the  falling  of  timber  and  the  roaring  of  fire 
alone  filled  his  ears. 


if 


P 
lit 


'  ll 


Chapter  V. 

r.Jt  ^l^^  -^""^  ^"^  ^""^'^  "Pon  the  green  mead- 
m  the  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  warm  breez^ 
staling  upward  from  the  pleasant  river.  cr^nS 
1u^ab,es  through  the  beautiful,  languidTfTe^ 
noon.  It  was  one  of  those  delightful  days  that 
steal  very  close  to  on.'s  heart  and  send  the  blocS 
bounding  through  one's  veins-a  day  of  sunsW^ 
and  music  into  which  could  be  crowded  all  tJe 

oS^nTer",  'T  "'-'"^'^  "'"  ^'^^  "^^^  ^-g 
mZ  k  J^VP"^°  ^'^  ^-'J  «ver,  living 
thing,  b,rd  and  beast,  flower  and  tree.  SroS 
and  exulted  in  the  vital  forces  of  quickenlTlS^ 
The  sun  looked  through  the  lalcove^^^t 
tZ^  !?T  *"•'  ^""^  ^ood-natur^^JT^. 
pressed  and  pleased  with  the  lordliness  of  eve,^ 
thing  out-of-doors.  ^ 

yea^rs'^'tt  sj"  "'  ''^'^  "^  '"  '""^  '^  ^ 
l^'  !  ^  """^  P*^*^"*  ^'"^  trusted  in  the 
goodness  of  One.  Whose  home  was  beyonJthe 
blue  skies  and  the  pale  stars. 

The  sunbeams  stole  into  her  nwm  through  the 
qu^nt.  narrow  windows  and  threw  ^^l 
shadows  on  the  walls,  and  Madeline's  eJL 3^ 
(206) 


THE  PARTING  OF  THR  WAYS. 


207 


ered  over  the  green  fields  and  meadows  through 
which  she  had  often  roamed  in  her  childhood's 
days,  and  along  the  shining  river  path  to  far  be- 
yond the  distant,  l>)'.ie  mountains. 

Presently  the  sound  of  the  village  school  bell 
in  the  distance  floated  over  the  meadow  Its 
music  awakened  old  memories.  Madeline  tossed 
about  nervously  and  tears  came  to  her  eyes  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  wept  in  yeare.  "she 
was  a  brave  girl  (a  coward  never  yet  shed  tears) 

heart  '''°°^'  ^"^"^  ^^^  '^'^^"  ^^'^^^  °*  ^^'' 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  was  heard.  Nearer  and 
nearer  came  the  sound  and  a  look  of  anguish 
crept  into  the  girf's  blue  eyes.  A  shadow 
glided  pa^t  the  window,  I„  an  instant  the  rider 
was  on  his  feet.  It  was  Dr.  Wilkins  just  return- 
ing from  a  call  over  the  hills. 

"And  how  is  my  little  giri  to-day?"  he  asked, 
happily,  as  hurriedly  he  brushed  into  the  room 
with  a  look  of  intense  joy  upon  his  noble  face  ' 
"Fine!  StewartI  Isn't  this  a  beautiful  dayl 
How  I  would  love  to  be  out  with  the  birds  and 
the  flowers!  But  no!  I  am  satisfied  with  these 
four  walls  and  my  little  bed.     My  little  kingdom. 

dreams  through  the  busy  day.     I  often  think  un- 
til I  grow  tired,  and  then  sometimes  I  lie  asleep 


H'l 


if 


! 


208 


X 


THB  PARTING  OF  THB  WAYS. 


Just  then  the  old  familiar  school-bell  sounded 
its  last  peal  and  a  feeling  of  pain  stole  into  Mad- 
eline's heart.  It  revealed  itself  upon  her  girl- 
ish face,  but  Stewart  did  not  notice  the  shadow 
that  came  and  went  so  silently.  A  sigh,  yet 
another,  burst  from  her  lips  and  it  went,  like  an 
arrow,  through  Stewart's  hiiaxt. 

"Stewartl"  at  last  came  from  Madeline's  lips 
— but  she  could  go  no  farther. 
"Yes,  my  dear;  what  is  it?" 
Two  thin,  pale  fingers  then  toyed  nervously 
through  the  pages  of  an  old  copy  of  Longfellow 
on  the  bed.     Madeline  was  not  herself  at  all- 
something  was  gnawing  deep  down  in  her  heart 
"Stewartl    I  pity  you,"    she  at  last  began. 
"You  are  so  good,  so  noble,  so  manly  and  I — O 
what  am  I  now  but  a  weak,  deformed  little  thing. 
You  are  so  beautiful,  and  I,  oh,  I  am  hideous, 
nothing  but  a  cripple.     I  thought  you  would  for- 
get me  long  before  now.      I  prayed  that  you 
would  forget.     But  you  will,  yon  must  forget  me, 
Stewart,  for  my  sake  and  for  your  sake,  won't 
you?    It  can  never  be— this  marriage  to  which 
we  had  nailed  our  loves,  and  you  must  let  your 
thoughts  wander  down  pleasanter  lanes.     Open 
the  door  of  your  little  heart's  room  and  banish 
me  from  it  forever!    Take  down  the  pictures  of 
olden  memoriesi    They  haunt  you,  they  cry  at 
you  with  uplifted  hands.     'It  can  never  be' 


X 


THB  PARTING  OP  THE  WAYS.  209 

the  strange,  sad  voices  are  speaking.     Bven  now 
I  can  hear  them. "  ' 

"Ahl  Madeline,  do  not  speak  the  cruel  wordi 
Ut  me  only  love  and  wait!  My  heaven  will 
never  be  complete  without  the  radiance  of  you— 
sweet,  iTuiding  star"-and  he  pressed  her  little 
hand  .a  his  and  softly  raised  it  to  his  lips 
"Madeline,"  he  spoke  softly,  "you  must  noi 
speak  so.  I  ^nnot  forget  you.  Without  you. 
my  heart  will  be  but  an  empty  cage. " 

"Better  that  your  heart  were  an  empty  cage 
Stewart,  than  to  have  it  hold  a  bird  whose  voic^ 
has  stopped  singing  and  whose  wings  are  broken 
Stewart,  were  I  to  add  my  life  to  yours,   how 
would  you  be  benefitted?    It  would  be  wrong 
How  could  I  help  you?    I  cannot  even  walk- 
yet  for  your  sake  I  am  willing  to  suffer  this  all 
Forget  me,  Stewart!    Shatter  the  idol  of  your 
heart,  God  will  give  you  another!    You  need  the 
support  of  a  strong  woman's  arm,  you  need  the 
care,  the  devotion  of  a  loving,  helpful  wife,  able 
and  willing  to  go  from  one  end  of  the  world  to 
the  other,  through  fire  and  flood  for  her  husband's 
sake." 

Stewart  sat  at  the  bedside,  silent  and  troubled 
drinking  in  every  burning  word,  and  through 
his  heart  ebbed  and  flowed  even  a  stronger  a 
mightier  love  for  the  poor,  little  cripple,  wh^ 
open  avowal  had  much  of  honesty  and  philos- 


210 


THE  PARTING  OP  THE  WAYS. 


ophy  in  it.     The  color  had  left  his  cheeks.    Just 
now  he  was  fighting  the  hardest  battle  of  his  life. 

"You  look  troabled,  Stewart.  You  must  not 
worry — "  Themusicof  Madeline's  girlish  voice 
startled  him.  "I  will  be  happier  to  know  that 
another  will  share  your  love  and  home.  But  I 
will  not  foiget  yo;i.  My  love  for  you  wiJl  con- 
tinue beyond  the  giave.  But,  Stewart,  you  must 
— you  will  try  to  forget  I  Throw  me  away  as  a 
child  would  its  playthingi  Let  me  lie  there  alone 
on  life's  road  and,  when  I  shall  hear  that  you 
have  forgotten  me,  I  will  be  satisfied  to  pass  this 
life  in  sweet  companionship  with  the  sun  and 
mooa  and  stars  and  the  Father,  Who  shelters  in 
His  care  the  sickly  fledglings  of  humanity. " 

Silence,  deep  and  solemn,  filled  the  little  room. 
Troubled  hearts  always  love  solitude,  and  now 
the  soft-eyed  messenger  was  doubly  welcome  jto 
both.  Madeline  stirred  slightly  in  her  bed,  the 
volume  of  Longfellow  slid  to  the  floor  and  the 
silence  was  broken. 

Stewart  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  The  gleams 
of  the  setting  sun  threw  a  halo  about  her  golden 
hair.  "Thou,  poor,  little,  white  angel,"  he 
thought  to  himgelf ,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the 
picture  that  Love  had  painted  on  his  heart. 
Then,  in  word3  that  she  alone  heard,  he  whisp- 
ered: "Madeline,  it  is  hard,  but  I  will  try  to 
forget" — and  the  two  wept  together. 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS.  211 

It  was  a  great  sacrifice  for  both.  And  he  went 
out  into  the  g«at.  giay  presence  of  the  world  tiy. 
ng  to  forget  the  little  angel  whose  finge«  had 
Jun  so  heavily  on  his  heart;  while  shTpoor 
faul  loving  thing,  moved  from  her  bed  to  herin. 
valid  chair  and  from  her  chair  to  her  bed.  through 
long.patientyeais.  with  the  golden  cross  of  su^- 

^Lrthint''"^**'''"'"'^*--^-^-. 


Chaitbr  VI. 

I^  us  draw  a  curtain  over  all  the  long  years 
that  followed.  Dr.  Wilkins  had  tried  to  forget 
the  little  drama  of  those  early  years,  but  it  clung 
to  him  always,  and  Madeline,  poor  Madeline, 
was  ever  uppermost  in  his  mind.  To-day  she 
was  still  alive,  standing  between  him  and  the 
future  he  dared  not  think  of.  Her  father  was 
dead,  but  her  aged  mother  lived  with  her  in  the 
little  cottage  down  by  the  pine  grove.  Bateese 
Latour  also  made  his  home  with  them,  and  did 
all  in  his  power  to  make  their  lives  comfortable. 

Dr.  Wilkins  often  dropped  in  to  see  Madeline. 
She  was  well  up  in  years  now,  and  spoke  slowly 
and  somewhat  nervously.  Her  hair  was  turning 
gray,  and  she  was  thin  and  pale.  The  same 
quaint  windows  looked  out  upon  the  fields  anl 
the  mountains.  The  same  little  bed  stood  in  the 
comer,  and  the  same  little  cripple  (much  chang- 
ed however)  was  prisoner  within  the  same  four, 
bare  walls. 

When  the  two  met,  however,  they  never  spoke 
of  those  early  days,  and  of  the  sorrow  and  suffer- 
ing that  clung  to  them.     The  past  was  sacied 
ground.     But  somrthing  seemed  always  to  draw 
(212) 


THB  PARTING  OF  THK  WA    S. 


213 


w!!!'^  '***'•"•    At^i though.  unconaciou8- 
b^  Wilkins  was  still  the  lover  he  controlled  his 
fcdjngs  so  carefully  that  Madeline  never  knew 
but  that  the  past  was  a  shadow  that  had  shifted 
out  of  his  sky  forever.     Outwardly  he  seemed 
the  picturt:  of  perfect  happiness;   inwardly,    his 
soul  was  tossed  about  by  this  wild,  deep  ocean  of 
1^   ..      ^"  presence  he  acted  his  part  well 
Ais  noble,  fighting  soldier  of  humanity;  but  i,i 
Je  eyes  of  God  he  stood  in  his  true  Ught,   and 
doubtless  there  was  much  of  pity  felt  for  him  in 
heaven. 


Cbaptkr  vri. 

All  morning  people  had  come  to  the  doctor's 
suigery.     The  anxious  feet  had  worn  a  deep  path 
through  the  snow  from  the  road  to  his  door 
For  a  moment  the  men  and  women  paused,  then 

.w  i?'^^'"*  "^^^  "P  *'»«  «peaking-tube, 
that  led  into  the  doctoi-'s  sleeping  room  upstain.. 

But  no  answer  came  and,  disappointed,  they  drove 

away.     "Doc.  Wilkins  must  have  gone  out  on  a 

case  in  the  night  and  hadn't  probably  returned  ' ' 

was  what  the  blacksmith  said,  and  this  is  what 

he  told  every  one  passing  the  smithy  that  day 

With  the  afternoon  the  same  persons  waited  and 

knocked  and  called  at  the  doctor's  door.     But  no 

voice  came  from  within  to  give  a  sign  of  hope 

and  with  heavy  hearts  they  returned  to  their 

sick-beds,  where  suffering  ones  waited  and  lonir- 

ed  for  the  sound  of  Nell's  hoofs  on  the  icy  roads 

Wis**  '"""'"  ""**'*'  "'  '**'■  J'"^""8  *'«>Kh- 

Night  came  with  her  cold  winds  and  lonely 
shadows.    No  light  shone  from  the  doctor's  study 
but  m  the  room  upstairs  there  was  the  sound  of 
heavy,  rapid  breathing. 

Upon  his  bed  lay  Dr.  Wilkins,  just  as  he  had 
(214) 


THK  PARTING  OK  THK  WAYS. 


216 


come  m  from  h.s  call,  the  night  before,  when  he 
had  fallen  a«leep  m  his  sleigh  and  Nell  had 
brought  him  home  safely.     The  heavy  blanket 
with  which  he  had  been  covered  had  fallen  to 
the  floor     He  seemed  fast  wJeep.  but  it  was  a 
strange  sleep,  interspersed  with  twitches  and  ner- 
vous  startmgs.     His  face  was  red  and  feverish: 
riowly.  he  turned,  and  afit  of  coughing  came  on 
which  woke  him.     His  eyes  opened-but  they 
had  a  strange,  faraway  look  in  them.     He  seem- 
ed dazed,  and  he  looked  strangely  about  the  room 
as  If  he  were  lost.    Just  then,  the  door-bell  down- 
stairs sounded  loudly.      It  was  like  a  cry  of 
agony  in  the  startled  night-ringing  high  above 
the  noises  of  the  angry  wimU  that  swept  through 
the  naked  trees. 

He  raised  himself  on  his  bed  and.  holding  his 
forehead,  listened  eagerly.     Again  the  bell  rang 
and  the  voice  of  a  child  sounded  through  the 
room: 

"Mother  is  sick.  Come  quick.  Doctor!" 
It  was  lt'.:le  Mary  Malone.  the  blacksmith's 
daughter,  and  he  voice  was  choked  with  tears 
Presently  Wilkins  came  to  his  senses.  He  jump^ 
ed  to  the  floor  and  made  for  the  speaking-tube 
not  many  steps  away.  A  violent  pain  pierced 
his  side.  Everything  about  him  swam  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  staggered  and  fell  to  the  floor 
just  as  his  fingers  were  about  to  clutch  the  speak- 


216 


THK  PAKTINO  OK  THB  WAYS. 


mg-tube  on  the  wall.  Almost  instantly  his 
mind  beame  a  blank,  and  he  muttered  rtrange 

words  and  strangesentencesthat  no  one  could  ever 
have  undenrtood.  And  for  some  time  he  lay 
there  turning  and  throwing  himself  trom  side  to 
Mde.  The  poor  man,  from  exposure  to  cold  and 
from  overwork,  had  developed  pneumonia.  Just 

w^'J!!,''"  ***"'"«  •"  *•**  ^"^y  of  delirium. 
He  tried  to  raise  himself  to  his  feet,  but  the  pain 
m  his  side  would  master  him  and  pull  him  down 
like  a  child.  Slowly  and  gradually  he  quieted 
down  and  fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep  which  lasted 
some  hours. 

Again,  the  door-bell  sounded  downstoira. 
Bateese  Latour  was  at  the  speaking-tube  this 
time.  ^^ 

"Madeline  Foumier  is  dying,"  hecried.  "She 
wanteyou.  Doctor!  for  God's  sake,  come  at 
oncel" 

The  sound  of  the  bell  had  startled  the  sick 
man  "Madeline  Fonmier-dying-"shrieked 
Wilkins.  "Am  I  dreaming-O  God-"  and,  on 
hands  and  knees,  he  crept  over  to  the  tube  and 
sent  down  the  message:  "I  will  come  at  once. 
Get  Nell  out  J  her  stable,  Bateese.  and  hitch  her 
upl  Just  then  he  had  an  awful  coughing  speU 
which  almost  prostrated  him.  He  felt  wretched 
but  his  mind  was  a  little  clearer.  The  thought 
of  what  he  was  about  to  do  nerved  him  for  the 


TH8  PARTING  or  THB  VAVr. 


217 


Jed.     With  mm  difficulty,  he  toks  to  his  feet 
Newattengthcametohim.    He  walked  over  to 
the  Uble,  struck  a  match,  and  lit  the  tallow  can- 
d^e  standing  near.    Then  his  eyes  wandered  to 
the  unfinished  manuscripts  labelled  "Madeline  " 
which  lay  before  him.     All  the  yean  of  his  life 
were  imprisoned  in  that  grand,  beautiful,  classical 
poon.     Slowly  and  nervously,  his  fingers  ran 
over  the  written  copy  until  a  sigh  escaped  his 
lips.    Thrt  he  donned  his  heavy,  sealskin  coat. 
I  am  afraid  the  last  chapter  of  '  Madeline'  will 
dose  this  night,"  he  muttered  sadly.     He  seem- 
edto  know-and  his  eyes  had  tean  in  them. 
Down  the  old,  creaking  staiis  hi  went,  littie 
realizing  what  a  sick  man  he  was,   his  whole 
mind  upon  Madeline— his  Madeline. 

"Ride  on  ahead  of  me.  Bateese.  with  your 
horsel  he  said  breathlessly,  as  he  c!imb-d  into 
the  sleigh.  A  litUe  groan  of  suffering  escaped 
him,  and  Nell  turned  her  head  and  looked  nerv- 
ously. Then  she  tossed  her  head  into  the  air. 
Go  on,  Nellf  I  leave  it  to  you  to-night,'  was 
all  he  said,  and  her  hoofs  sank  into  the  icy  road 
and  she  was  off  like  a  shot. 

Dr.  Wilkins  reached  the  Foumier  home  in 
good  time.  Every  window  threw  out  a  welcome 
blaze  of  light,  and.  when  the  sound  of  Nell's 
hoofs  beat  upon  the  icy  road,  the  door  flew  open 
wide  and  M  ..  Foumier,  poor,  old  woman,  stood 


ii8 


THB  rARTINO  Or  THB  WAV!. 


e^IyawtitingWii.  In  the  door-wmy.  light  in 

ul".^!!^V''*  ^  '*  M^leline't  b«l.ide. 
Ufc^  ita  b«< .  hung  merely  by  .  thrwMi  but  the 
recognited  him  and  amUed  nraedy.  "I  «m  lo 
«l«dyou«me.  Stewm."  die  Mid  dowly.  .„d 
then  doMd  her  tired  eyea. 

body  riiook  visibly.  ,  Almort  unconadoudy 
through  dire  weekneM.  he  .uik  into  the  chmr  .1 
W.  «de  Hi.  h«Ml  ««ght  M^leline'..  The 
•t«nge  look  again  came  to  his  eyes  and,  for  a 
mo«eat.  the  old  love  crept  between  them  and 
m^e  them  happy,  it  was  the  sweetest  n.oment 
ootn  had  ever  tasted. 

"I«^  £aint-Oood-bye  motherl— Bateese'" 
came  in  faint,  trembling  voice.  "Stewart- 
good-byel" 

Thesick man  bent  over  the  little  'orm.  "Have 
courage  Madeline,"  he  whispered,  "I  will  meet 
you  at  the  parting  of  the  ways. " 
^  Her  eyes  opened  widely  and  she  nodded  her 
»d  sweetly,  and  then  her  eyes  closed.  In 
anodier  moment.  Dr.  Wilkins  staggered  out  in- 
to the  night  and  made  for  his  horse.  "ThepaK 
^  the  last  ch.pt«  of  'Madeline-  is  open  bZI 

The  white  Footpath  of  Peace'-what  a  beauti- 
fnU,  soul-satisfymgtiUe.  O  God,  I  thank  Thee!" 


TH«  PAKTINO  or  THB  WAYS. 


ai9 


Barly  next  morning  Nell  waited  long  at  the 
atable-door  and  kicked  her  hoofs  impatienuy  into 
the  anow.  She  toaacd  her  head  from  aide  to  aide 
and  cried  pitifully,  but  there  was  no  atir  in  the 
aleigh  behind  this  time.  Her  master  did  not 
hear  her  pleading  voice.  His  eyes  were  closed 
in  peaceful  sleep,  and  on  his  face  the  smile  ling- 
ered that  came  when  all  suffering  was  over. 

He  had  gone  to  meet  his  Madeline  at  the  part- 
ing of  the  ways. 


